


One Who Loves

by OneMoreWander



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 65,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5900995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneMoreWander/pseuds/OneMoreWander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has never met anyone like his Darling, so fragile and beautiful. She is his, and he is hers. But in the wake of their escape, this little fantasy begins to crumble and die before his eyes, shattering right outside of his grasp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wonderful Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> This story will mostly be told from Eddie's perspective, with occasional PoV from Waylon.
> 
> Warnings will be posted at the beginning of the chapter when needed, along with any other comments. This is just a recap of the Engine scene, so there will be a time skip in the next chapter set a little before he meets his precious darling, and span after their escape. Also, the events in this story will expand to around a month, which allows key points to develop. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy~

He didn't look like the rest. From his plain clothes to the pained expression on his face, it was clear that he didn't belong. This man, this young man typing away at a keyboard while trying to keep his gaze averted from the engine, does not belong.

He looked so frail compared to the scientists and security guards surrounding him, so innocent with a pure heart; a sense of justice and right and wrong. This man whose body shifts from anxiety clear enough to be seen all the way down here.

No, he does not belong here. Not at all.

Wrenching himself from the grasp of the many guards and scientists roughly handling him, Eddie Gluskin makes a dash out of their reach and up the short staircase. He can feel his blood pumping at an impossible rate, adrenaline pushing him forward although all he wants to do is lie down and cry; or hide; or die, for that would be much better than this. This forced experimentation that leaves him clawing at his skin and eyes for hours after in an attempt to rid himself of the agony. They are raping him of all he has, dignity and self preservation thrown out the window, and it _hurts._ He can't take it, can't take this constant torture any longer. He needs a savior, someone to help him, just anyone –

"Help me! Don't let them do this! Don't let them!" He screams, pressing his body against the window and pounding on it. "You!" he shouts, targeting the technician, "I know you can stop this! You have to help me!" The plea tears through his throat as the young man behind the computer stumbles from his chair and steps back, wide eyes locked on his. Eddie tries to convey his need through their gaze, tries to show him how desperately he needed this to stop. The guards are pulling at his arms but he breaks free every time, running back to the window to his savior. Heart surging and breath hitched, their moment ends much too quickly.

"You have to…"

Something hits the back of his head, making him black out for a few seconds, and when he comes to he realizes that he's being pulled back. The hands gripping his arms and sides are twisting into his flesh and leaving harsh bruises and small cuts, but it only comes as a slight hindrance to his fight. He struggles against their hold all the way to the large sphere filling with a blue sedative liquid that has become all too familiar. Another guard rams what he assumes to be a baton against the back of his skull as they shove him into the container; through the daze, he feels them begin to force tubes into his nostril and mouth. He gags around the plastic tubing, tasting iron and latex on his dry tongue, and it causes him to cough and choke.

It is then that the light drizzle of some substance runs down his throat and into his system. Eyes flying open, he begins to panic. _No,_ no, _not this. Oh God, not this – I don't,_ he cries in his head as the liquid kindles a fire in his gut. Like the sun, it radiates through him and ignites his veins in a surge of gut-wrenching agony, spiraling up his body and constricting his lungs. The tube down his throat does nothing to quell the burning or help him breathe, so in minutes Eddie is beginning to feel lightheaded far too early. Their experiments haven't even begun and he's already reeling off the deep end. A drop of blood rises from a particularly painful cough and thins out in the blue liquid now surrounding him.

Soon, he is reduced to gentle groaning and closed eyes, having lost the strength to keep his eyes open once the sedative from the liquid kicked in. Absentmindedly, he wonders how he's able to float in this mess of blue liquid. It wasn't water, no; the fluid was much thicker but with a higher viscosity.

Viscosity, how did he remember that word from school? Chemistry? Is that where he learned it from? Eddie lazily shakes his head, sparking a jolt of pain to spread through his neck.

Something bright flashes before his closed eyes, but he can only make an outline of its image from where the light fades into darkness. A few seconds later another image flashes, and then another. It is almost hypnotic, psychedelic, watching these images burn into his retinas through lidded eyes. There's a pinch in his right eye from the next image, followed by a couple more in his left, but the ache is dull so he refuses to focus on figuring it out. However, he does muse over the scratching sensation blooming in his cheek.

Eddie groans and inhales a deep breath. The scratching in his cheek is now a burning which consumes the side of his face, fluctuating in intensity every so often. He hears someone say "Yes," from somewhere through the fog in his senses, but that could have been his imagination.

He had a great one, didn't he? Eddie mentally nods his head, this time remembering to leave his body as slack as he could. He imagined all of the touches that made his skin crawl and his heart ache, imagined all of the screams that somehow filtered into his dreams. The laughs of men. The cries of women. They were all a part of his imagination, right? Of course it was. Why else would these wonderful doctors be trying to help him get better? They were only saving him from himself.

The pain in his body dies completely and Eddie moans in relief. He feels so weightless in this glorious blue now, drifting through liquefied space as easily as a star or asteroid. No more pain or sorrow, he is free of all of that nonsense, for now. So in a relatively drunken haze, Eddie hums around the tubes in his mouth and lets his thoughts wonder. Wonder to a familiar song that reminded him of childhood. Despite the ache tugging in his heart, he begins to sing in a broken whisper:

 _"_ _When I was a boy my mother… often said to me…_ _Get married, son, and see…_

_how happy you will be…"_


	2. Doctor

There has been a nickname floating around the asylum for some time now, one that is accompanied by confusion and giggles alike. For those who are confused, they most likely have not visited the Vocational Block in a while; as for those who laugh, they are as ignorant as those who simply do not know or understand. At first the childish name was taken in stride, but over time it wore on him.

The Groom.

Such a comical name, isn't it? At least he thought so when that first group of patients walked past him and one of them, a scrawny fellow with blisters distorting all features below his nose, edged his friends to the side and warned them about stepping too close to the 'Groom.' Eddie hadn't understood the comment; he lifted his gaze from the long white cloth he was sewing to raise an eyebrow at the suspicious group. Of course, they flinched and walked away when they noticed his stare, but Eddie continued to watch them leave, now thoroughly confused.

It wasn't until he met a peculiar patient that he realized what the variant meant all too long ago.

* * *

It was perfect. Although the dress was made of white table cloth and shredded paper, it felt like silk as Eddie ran his hand along the fabric, cupping the hem of the dress to bring it to his face. He inhales deeply, rather enjoying the fresh scent. Was that a hint of lavender? He doesn't remember picking up that particular scent, but the odor is pleasant and only adds to enhance his work - his masterpiece.

A single light bulb hangs in the center of the small room, illuminating it just enough to allow Eddie to work in privacy. Directly underneath it is a long metal workbench filled with tailoring supplies: scissors and needles entangled by black thread and tape. A ruler dangles off the edge of the table. Stray pieces of dull and colorful fabric are strewn about the room, with some laid halfway out the window. The only thing keeping the cloths on the table actually _on_ the table is a clear container filled with buttons and other dazzles. Admittedly, the room is a clustered mess, but Eddie appreciates its isolation from the rest of the block and wanderers.

There is a sudden shift from under him, and Eddie frowns into the cloth. Is it time already?

"Darling," he coos, voice muffled by the dress still pressed against his face. He feels the variant move again, a shiver, and make some sort of whining noise. With a sigh he reluctantly allows the fabric to fall past his fingers before running a hand through his hair. They are clammy, sticky, a little more than he prefers, but he counts it as proof of hard work.

Thankful for the lack of light in the room, Eddie cups the side of the variant's face and feels a range of scabbing cuts scratch his palm. "Did I wake you? I wasn't meaning to rouse you from your slumber yet," he says and lightly slaps the cheek in his hand. The variant flinches at that and jerks away, but Eddie was expecting such a reaction. Grabbing the variant's arms tightly, however away from the dress' sleeves to avoid wrinkling it, Eddie shakes the patient violently before locking eye contact. "You've been such a good," he pauses, "girl, since the beginning. I don't suggest acting out now."

He roughly shakes the variant again to hear the ugly whore cry in submission. Pleased with her compliance, Eddie gently strokes her scarred cheek in an attempt to comfort before backing away. He drums his fingers along the bottom of his chin as he scrutinizes the variant.

The dress is gorgeous, perfect, but the variant underneath is not. She is a whore and only serves as a model to build his dress upon. Eddie had found her creeping around the halls leading to his little haven, and, stricken by her wonderful poise and build, decided that he would sate her curiosity with first-hand experience of the work here. She struggled, oh how she tried to get away, which only served to excite his desire.

It didn't take long for her to realize the futility of struggling, and after fifteen minutes of fight Eddie had subdued her enough to drag her deeper into his home and string her up into the air. The rope tied around her waist lifted her by a pulley system across the room. She is only a foot or so off the ground, but it is high enough to prevent her from touching the floor. Sure, she could easily swing her body to gain momentum and possibly break free, but Eddie realized awhile ago that she is not the brightest apple in the bunch.

With the twist of his wrist, Eddie cranks the pulley's lever until the variant is flailing and screaming in pain, the rope pressing deeply into her abdomen now. He turns the lever slowly, watching intently as the whore squirms and wiggles, shouts and screams for him to stop. Her cries are like music to his ears, dancing in the air as a wet gurgle leaves the variant. Such sweet, glorious sounds that echo through the room, accentuated by her feeble cries. He might have felt sad if she hadn't betrayed him. Crimson splatters on to the bottom of the dress. She gasps for a few more moments, Eddie steadily turning the lever, before her body twitches and her arms fall limp at her side. A dribble of blood runs from the corner of her mouth to the collar of the dress.

Satisfied with her motionless body, Eddie allows the pulley enough slack to lower the whore onto the floor, dead weight slumping forward. He carefully approaches her and stops a few feet away. Spotting a gleam of silver on the small table from the corner of his eye, Eddie quietly picks up the long blade and brings it down upon the girl's nape, giving it a harsh slice and tug.

"How disappointing…" he mumbles as he wrenches the knife free and drops it back onto the table. In time with the metallic cling, he crouches for a closer look at the dress. The hem and collar are stained red, along with a new spot between her legs from where her head is now slumped. He pulls her head up and out of the way to frown at the particularly indecent area. He could have salvaged the dress if it wasn't for that.

 _Oh well,_ Eddie thinks while hooking his fingers under the dress' collar for a stronger grip. Hoisting the body up so that the variant is 'sitting,' Eddie walks around her until he's behind. With a grunt, he drags the heavy body from the center of the room to a corner masked in shadows. The stench is raw here, gut-wrenchingly so, reminding Eddie that he has to throw out the trash by tonight or else his entire home will smell.

On the count of three, he rolls the body into a pile of about ten other filthy whores and sluts.

Now that the job is done, he smiles and sighs in relief, turning on his heel to walk back to his workbench. What should he do now? That dress took a while to make, having just finished it yesterday, but he isn't in the mood to start a fresh project so soon. Since it is only polite for a gentleman to mourn his Darling's death for a day, even if she turned out to be a dirty whore, he believes that a couple hours will be long enough. So with that in mind, Eddie giddily grabs the blood-stained knife from earlier and slips it into a self-made holster on his belt. After turning the single light bulb off, he steps out of the room.

The hall is much cooler than his room, and Eddie briefly wishes that he had thought to tailor a coat or sweater, something simple to pull over his arms.

Taking a right to leave the sanction of his hallway, Eddie ascends the stairs that lead to Dennis' home. Truthfully, he is fond of the fool, sometimes sneaking up here just to listen to him prattle on and on about girls and the "man downstairs." Of course, Eddie knows exactly whom he is referring to, but the mysterious persona is interesting enough to not stop poor Dennis from using it. The man only had himself to talk to, anyway. So Eddie doesn't bother to seek him out as he crosses through the makeshift labyrinth, having trudged through it enough times to know all of the shortcuts and dead ends. Soon, he is leaving the home and descending stairs, now wandering through open halls.

It is uncanny how many sluts there are.

They are deformed creatures of the night, all watching Eddie's movements earnestly as he walks past their cells, occasionally eyeing them back just to stop them from staring so hard. He has always hated walking past them and feeling their stares crawl up his spine; their disgusting, swinish advances echoing in his ears.

" _Why don't you wrap those strong arms around daddy?"_

Eddie grits his teeth.

" _C'mere boy, I got a surprise for you."_

He walks faster.

" _Silky, silky, silky. I have a secret. I'm so itchy. Silky, you are so silky..."_

" _Yeah, just wrap them plump lips around my dripping-"_

" _Ho! Look at this fine piece of shit. Hey! Hey you! Don't walk away – actually, keep walking! Y' gotta nice ass, I see."_

And then he spots a variant curled under a bed, shaking violently as blood drips slowly from the sheets, whispering, _"The Groom. O-oh God, the Groom is here. He's here, he's here, he's here."_ The variant's eyes widen. _"The Groom is here to pick his bride… And I-I-I-I don-on't. I c-can't, oh God, he's here…"_ The man shrinks further into himself and averts his gaze from Eddie's, curling deeper into the shadows under the bed.

When he reaches the recreational courtyard, there are a few patients playing basketball with a flat ball, with others walk or run the track. Most of them wear the prescribed raggedy brown shirt and pants, if they're wearing anything at all, making Eddie stand out like a sore thumb. Not that he minds much, for the clothes he's made himself are much more appealing than those rags, but it is in moments like these where Eddie wishes he could blend in with the crowd.

Blend in and avoid being spotted by the doctors.

Five of them altogether, with two of them examining a sobbing variant whose leg rests on the only female's lap. She crouches in front of him while her partner scribbles whatever is diagnosed. The other three are barricading them in a circle with their large bodies and stern expressions, searching the area in coordination, turning their heads with each other. There are no blind spots under their gaze.

He takes a step back. Calmly. Breathing in slowly as he tries to relax his muscles and turn around, head back the way he came and go to his room. His home. His safe haven. One step backwards: exhale. Another: inhale. He's almost there, can hear the sinful shouts of caged whores. He is so close to the darkness, when all of a sudden someone from inside shouts, _"Doooooctors! Gluskin is running! He's running! Come get him! Doctors, Gluskin is heerrreee!"_

His eyes dart to the insufferable, screaming bitch beating on her cell's bars before he sprints to her. Instinctively, he grabs the knife from his holster and slams it into her throat. There's blood, _so much blood_ , splattering onto his face, his hair, his clothes, but it doesn't deter him from yanking the blade forward and grabbing the back of her neck to slam her face into the bars.

"You _bitch!"_ he screams and slams her face again, and again, and again, until her nose and lips are hidden behind red. He can hear them coming, _oh God,_ their boots thudding on grass and then tile as the devils draw near. Terror rises in his chest, choking him, as he hears a doctor shout for tasers.

Adrenaline pumps through his veins as Eddie drops the bitch and dashes forward, sprinting into the darkness and trying to cut corners to confuse the doctors. He won't let them take him – not again, not _ever._ He can't go back to that machine. He can't go back to the pod and fall further into hysteria. His mind is his and he wants it. He _needs_ it. Do they even know what it does to him? How the machine and images buzz delusions into his head?

That _whore_ did this. She cursed him and now he has to run. Run away from the blue sparks that light his peripheral and the thuds that echo through the obscure hallways. Run away. Don't think, just _run._

"Gluskin! I order you to stop!"

_No._

And then, as he leaps over a fallen desk and shoves open a cracked door, blue light fills his vision. The world fades to black.

* * *

"Mr. Gluskin? Are you here with me, Eddie?" a voice says from somewhere above. He grimaces as electricity pains his spine, the metaphysical voice asking again, "Are you here with me? Can you answer my question?"

"I enjoy… sewing," Eddie answers before frowning. Why did he say that? He has no idea, but the answer feels natural.

The being above him sighs and shifts somewhere to his left. There's a ruffle of what sounds like cloth, and then something is being placed in his hand. The fingers brushing against his are soft. "How long have you been sewing, Eddie?" it asks.

"Not very long."

"Do you know what this is?" the voice questions and probes the cloth into Eddie's grasp. He swallows dryly and frowns, not fond of how white light blurs his vision when he tries to open his eyes. So he resolves to keep them closed.

"Silk," he rubs the cloth between his fingers, "I do believe that this is silk."

The voice hums softly. "Tell me, Mr. Gluskin, if you had enough of this material to make anything you desired, what would you create?"

What a strange question. His frown deepens at it and he tries to open his eyes. The light blinds him again, but after forcing them to remain open he can make out the basic features of the being above him. The voice is attached to a nurse, a beautiful nurse with piercing green eyes. Her hair is dark and wispy, curling into a bowl around her ears and stopping at the base of her neck. The only unsightly hair he can see is a faint mustache.

She prods his fingers again, and it takes much control to stop himself from holding her still. He doesn't want to scare her away. In the most charming voice that he can muster, Eddie answers, "I would create a wedding dress. The most beautiful dress for my bride."

"Do you consider yourself a family man?"

"Well, of course!" Eddie exclaims. The nurse removes her hand from his to write something down, but she raises an eyebrow as a signal for him to keep talking. "I do believe that I would be a wonderful father. Have a few children and cherish them as one would cherish diamonds…except, much more." He smiles at the nurse sweetly. "Do you not consider yourself a potential mother? I know that most women dream of having young ones."

That causes the nurse to clear her throat and blush, and Eddie to glance around the room to find the source of her shame. The infirmary is empty except for a sleeping patient turned in his bed. She must not want to discuss such private matters in front of him, he assumes. Eddie muses over how to word his next question to imply her possibly staying with him for a bit, but is brought out of his thoughts when the nurse rushes from her seat and crosses the room to the – once – sleeping patient.

"Richard, I need you to lie back down," she says, commanding, pushing down on the sickly patient's chest. He moves against her, exposing visible bone as he jerks against the restraints holding his arms and legs down. _"Richard."_

" _Don't_ call me that," the patient, Richard, scolds before shrugging off the nurse's hand on his shoulder. "And I don't have to be babied, dear. I am as capable of following orders as that bachelor over there." He aims at Eddie, who snorts in response. "Anyway, can you be a useful nurse and bring me something to drink. Tequila, martini, imported _Bier,_ I'm not picky, just anything to rid me of this, _ahem,_ dry throat." Richard says and tsks, waiting for the nurse to move. Stone-faced, she tugs on the restraints around Richard's joints, yanking them tight.

When she finally does move to leave, to Eddie's dismay, the patient lifts a gnawed finger and calls after her. "Oh! Do be nice and bring something for our friend here too. I saw the way you guys brought him in, and, might I say, carelessly? All men are created equal, Sherlock!"

The nurse rolls her stunning eyes and exits the room with her notepad. Eddie waits for the door to shut before opening his mouth to speak, but Richard beats him to it.

"I know what you must be thinking right now, something along the lines of 'who's this ingenious fellow telling that nurse what to do.' So I'll go ahead and oblige you." There is a clink of metal and then something hard hitting the floor, followed by three more thuds. When Eddie looks back at the patient, Richard is standing and twirling a hair pin around his finger. "Call me Trager, Dr. Trager."

Trager. The man must have had more time in that damned Engine than Eddie has, for his entire body is a grotesque rendition of skin and bones. It almost makes his stomach churn, but Eddie has seen much worse than a walking skeleton.

"You must be the Groom, if I'm correct," Trager says while walking over to Eddie's bed. He crouches so that he's on eye level with the man, raising an eyebrow at him. "Am I beautiful enough to be your bride, Mr. Gluskin?"

The comment makes Eddie want to simultaneously laugh and vomit; instead, he snarls. "What are you-"

"Ah, ah, ah, I'm asking the questions here. And explaining, well, you know what, _I'm_ doing the talking. You just listen, capisce?" Trager says and then, slowly, leans over the bed to hover above Eddie. So close, Eddie can make out the exact split where metal replaces flesh and the 'doctor's' eye bulges out. He tries to sit up, but the restraints are holding him down.

"You see, I've been hearing about you for a while now. 'Don't go near the Vocational Block or you'll find Eddie Gluskin.' 'Beware of the Groom.' 'The boogeyman will snatch ya and kill ya, the boogey named Gluskin.' Stuff like that, right? And upon hearing all of these rumors, I decided to see the truth for myself." Trager twirls the hairpin before jamming it into the restraint on Eddie's right hand, twisting it meticulously until it snaps open and the metal falls. Satisfied with his work, the doctor moves to undo the restrain on Eddie's right leg.

"I'm sure you know this already, friend, but I've been watching you, and I actually enjoy your work. Grabbing poor guys that aren't too ugly, although that is a matter of opinion, and dressing them up in pretty little dresses. Oh, but if they fight, ho ho ho _then_ it becomes interesting," the restraint hits the floor. "Whore... bitch... slut... _minx,_ " Trager practically purrs, "it is so fascinating how you constantly teeter on extolling your victims and crushing their skulls in. Really gets the blood rolling, honestly.

"I just wanted to commend you on your effort to cleanse this rather chaotic asylum, look for your wife, and evade nurses and doctors as much you can. I know that they can be such a pain in the neck. Trust me on that one, friend. But," his voice is lilting, lips lifting into a smirk as he undoes the last restraint on Eddie's hand. The metal falls just like the rest of them, and Eddie sits up almost immediately once his body is free. A sudden pain shoots up his spine that makes him grimace, clenching his eyes shut, but it passes within seconds. When he looks back at where Trager should have been, the man is gone.

On the door is a note smeared in blood:

" _If you ever need help, just call._

_~ Love, your dear friend, Dr. Trager."_


	3. Symbiosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the previous one, but it'll pick back up in the next one

This form of symbiosis is volatile, yet he can't bring himself to cut it off.

As the pair rounds a corner leading to a large, dusty gymnasium, Eddie eyes the torn back of the parasite he now views as an…acquaintance? Friend? Those words have too much attachment for his tastes, but Trager is not so much of an enemy or stranger anymore.

It is parasitic, all the while mutualistic. Trager has provided him with tools and advice while Eddie has given him companionship and, occasionally, an extra hand to use. Although, Eddie could argue the fact that he's just being used to lift the heavy weight for Trager, aka dead bodies, but he's also very aware of how strong the strange variant is.

The doctor. Maybe he should get his head checked out because this relationship is becoming comfortable, which is a distasteful word as the two toss the bodies over their shoulders to the floor.

The weight heaves a dull thud when it hits the floor, resounding through the gym before leveling off into silence. It is cold in here, and Eddie wonders how Trager can even survive the room, entire asylum included, with only his front area covered by a heavy tarp - and barefoot. Even without the chill, Eddie would never walk these disgusting halls in only his bare feet, wary of the hordes of diseases that must be crawling around. No, he has a family to think about.

"What are we doing here?" He asks when the silence has stretched long enough and curiosity has taken over. There isn't anything particularly special about the vacant gym besides its abnormally low temperature, which isn't truly special because it can easily be traced to the small windows high on the wall. They must be open, he concludes. But the most peculiar element is the reason why Trager insisted so fiercely on bringing those two whores with them. Usually, they do their errands alone and leave whatever collateral where it is, unless Trager fancies the body for study, but to haul the bodies here makes no sense to Eddie.

Trager must be planning something that Eddie won't like. That must be why he hasn't told him about it, knowing that Eddie will hate whatever scheme this is. The thought prickles Eddie's skin, not fond of being handed situations where he has no say.

Eddie crosses his arms and clears his throat to grab the wondering doctor's attention (the man has crept to the other side of the gym and is now crouched over some metal contraption, prodding and pressing down on it carefully). He doesn't look up until Eddie clears his throat a second time and growls his name.

"Oh! Ah," Trager steps a few feet away from the metal device, "yes?"

"Why did you bring me here?"

Either the question or Eddie's tone caused Trager's sheepish smile to drop instantly. "I know that you are eager, but don't you like surprises?"

"When it involves a scheming psychopath, no," Eddie says.

Trager raises an eyebrow. "And you're not one?"

"Not in this context. So I would appreciate it if you'd stop stalling and tell me why you brought me here, with two whores. They deserved the ground that they died on."

"But that is just it, buddy!" Trager says with a flourish, swinging an arm as he spins on his heel to a stand. He narrows his gaze to Eddie and stretches his arms wide, muscles and skin contorting with his body. "This, this is the gift that the hand of God has bestowed on you!"

Trager holds the position, eyes wide and excited, boring into Eddie, but the larger man doesn't react besides a bored glance around the room. After about a minute, Eddie is fighting off a smirk and sighing. "Um, if I may, what exactly is this gift that God has given me?"

"This." Trager answers with a wide gesture.

"…This?"

"Yes."

 _"Oh."_ The room. His gift is the entire gym. Eddie looks around skeptically. Sure, it's large and would work great for storage, but with the entire Vocational Block under his thumb Eddie has more than enough storage space – as if he has a lot to store, anyway. So having this gymnasium is a tad excessive in his opinion. He doesn't need it – has no use for it. But he can't outright deny the doctor, if only to sustain their mutualism. Hesitantly and more than unsure, Eddie thanks the doctor.

Trager doesn't buy it.

"You don't like it, do you?" The man asks but doesn't sound hurt or upset, only indication of anything besides coy is the hint of disappointment. Eddie opens his mouth to deny the accusation but Trager interrupts him. "Don't try to deny it, Gluskin, I can see it in your eyes. It's a shame though, with all of the promise that this room has," he tilts his head to the side and clasps his hands behind his back, "I saw a future here for you. But alas! All does not go according to plan, even if that plan would have solidified you."

"What are you talking about?"

_"This!"_

There's something that whips past Eddie, a tendril that slices his cheek and air that curls upward. A howl of laughter. Metallic clanking. Something is thrown into the air and then there's a sickening thud that flips Eddie's stomach upside down. He grits his teeth and tries to stop his body from flinching, the onslaught of movement sparking his senses. Only when he hears another bout of laughter is he able to pry his gaze from his hand and drag it along the gym wall until he spots the culprit.

"This is your gift, buddy!" Trager barks from his place above ground, hanging by his feet from the ceiling. He swings his body for momentum, dangling back and forth wildly, waving his arms and laughing. "This is my gift to you!"

Hanging not too far from Trager is one of the dead whores, her sliced body dripping crimson as it lies pale and limp. Eddie stares between the two in bewilderment, heart thundering in his chest as the wild doctor shrieks in joy and the whore hangs. There is a rope connecting them, linked to one of the metal rods on the device Trager was examining earlier. The cut on Eddie's cheeks stings profusely, but he doesn't lift a finger to swipe at the blood, mind too boggled to truly care for the trail falling to dip at his collar.

What is the doctor thinking? Why did he just fling himself into the air? Does he want to die? It is the only conclusion that Eddie can come up with: that Trager's gift to Eddie is his death (he feels hollow now; hollow and sweaty and wanting to sit because staring up at Trager is making him dizzy). Eddie fumbles back, almost falling, but catches himself just in time. A shiver rakes through his body.

Trager is shouting something but he can't hear him – no, no he can hear but… what is he saying? What is he shouting? What is he say-

"Rope, Gluskin! Grab the rope right _now!_ "

Rope. Eddie swings his body to search for said rope frantically, snatching it up from the ground. He is instantly flung forward, arms being yanked up by the rope, and has to wrap the harsh coil around his fist and wrist to keep a vice grip on it. When he looks back at Trager his notices that the doctor is teetering up and down, and the whore is closer to the ground. When Eddie pulls on the rope, the whore goes up and Trager comes down.

"Did you… Did you tie yourself to a pulley?" Eddie shouts, glaring at the damned psycho as a mixture of anger and anxiety burns in his chest, tasting acid in his throat. " _Trager!_ What were you thinking?!"

"Of your future, my friend!" Trager shouts back, twirling, carelessly moving in the air despite the strain that it puts on Eddie. The Groom has to plant his feet on the ground and lower himself just to keep his footing, but Trager doesn't seem to notice. "I did this for you! This can be your trophy, your legacy! Think about it Gluskin, this is what you need!"

"What are you-"

"I've seen the piles, Eddie! I've seen your…your _whores,_ " Trager snarls, no longer swinging but staying still, eyes locked on Eddie. "I've watched you dump them in the corners of that room you used to call home and leave them there to rot. But this is your legacy, this is your purpose. These whores are gifts!"

It hurts. The strain on his arms are setting his muscles aflame, pumping adrenaline into him that dulls the pain just slightly. He grimaces and tries to step back to bring the deranged patient closer but finds that Trager is too heavy. His hands run cold in sweat and the rope slips up his wrist, peeling away at skin. It seems like the longer he holds on the heavier Trager becomes, and if this continues he's not sure how long he'll be able to maintain.

So what the _hell_ is Trager talking about?

"Your wife, you're clearing the way for her, aren't you?"

Eddie snaps his head up at that. Without thinking, he answers, "Yes… Yes I am. I am freeing her from the company of filthy sluts." What does she have to do with this? A gift, a trophy? The promise of his darling? Eddie grips the rope tighter and jerks it back, dropping Trager about an inch. "Why are you bringing my darling into this? She has nothing to do with you."

"But she does, buddy! I – we are doing this for her! Just try to follow where I'm going, okay?" Trager says while shoving his fists into the dark cloth hanging over his chest.

"Why are you not seeing my vision, Gluskin? Don't just look at me, but look at what I represent. Look at my symbolism, per se. I know Father Martin would love this, but watch as I hang for my sins, Eddie. My friend, this is your legacy, your path to purity. This is the road your darling must trek to reach you! Do you not see it?" He swings his body to the left and sends Eddie fumbling to keep his grip, incidentally raising Trager higher – but the doctor only seems encouraged.

"You don't have to hide your work in that damned closet anymore; don't have to leave the promise of your wife behind. Eddie, I am offering you a token for your darling as well as a way to be rid of those whores," he exclaims with outstretched arms. "Let them hang! That is what I am giving to you. A way out. A way in. A way to freedom, Gluskin. A path for your bride to follow. This is the gift that the hand of God has bestowed upon you!"

A sharp twist from Trager jerks Eddie forward and tumbling to the floor, slamming his knees on the cold wood. He tries to tighten his grip on the rope but it slings from his grasp between his fingers, burning and splitting the skin on his palms and knuckles. The rope spirals free from his arms and hands within seconds while Trager laughs from above. Maniacal and hearty, like a joyous uncle at a reunion; except, he is choking on his own laughter as the pulley creeks and groans from the weight, wires and ropes tightening at high tension points.

And all Eddie can do is watch in silence, mouth agape but no voice to leave it. He scurries out from under Trager and the hanging whore on his hands and knees. This place. His gift. He feels nauseous and hot yet cold all the same, throat dry and body sweating. Triangles. He can see the faded flashes of triangles and squares and other geometric shapes between organics. It blurs his vision, races through his head, dull and steady and reminiscent of a time he'd like to forget.

Trager is laughing but all he hears is the buzz of the engine. Trager is slipping but all he sees is the faded code of a cursed engine.

There's a buzz saw.

There's a pair of large scissors (dripping in blood – why is there so much blood?)

Darling. Oh, she must be nearby.

This is her gift. This is her trail. Clear her path of bitches and whores and sluts. So filthy, _filthy filthy filthy._

Something crashes to the floor, loud and sharp, he can even hear something wet snapping, but Eddie's eyes are clenched shut and his breathing is ragged.

 _No…_ he doesn't want to look.

* * *

This form of symbiosis is volatile, yet he can't bring himself to cut it off.

Blood has a rather nice sound to it as it drips; the beat is constant. It is never heavy like rain, and the dash of color is a pleasant contrast to clear. Eddie doesn't bother to place a bucket under the source of it in order to catch the droplets; instead, he relaxes into his chair and enjoys the sight.

It feels good to finally have the time to sit back and rest, especially since sleep has become sporadic. Between the riots, tailoring, and variants, Eddie has been quite busy keeping his home in pristine condition and getting rid of any pests (sluts). And it always takes the most energy out of him when a promising lady turns out to be nothing more than a bitch in disguise. So he lives for these moments of peace and quiet, sometimes even allowing himself the time to eat.

As if on cue, a can of beans and pack of crackers brush against his shoulder, and Eddie turns to retrieve them.

"Thank you," he says before digging into the half eaten package for a cracker. He isn't very hungry – actually, he's not hungry at all – but if he doesn't eat Trager will probably fuss and prattle on about health and fitness (as if that exposed muscle tissue of a man was the epitome of health himself).

"The welcome is yours," Trager coos before stretching and yawning. Beside him is his signature pair of scissors with fresh stains bleeding on to the floor, which reminds Eddie of the droplets in front of him.

Tipping the can over his lips to tap the beans into his mouth, Eddie looks around the aluminum to watch the rest of the blood drain from the fat slut hanging several feet above them. She was one of those promising types, but when he tried to fix her she fought him harder than the rest. And he couldn't have her setting an example for the others, so in a fit of rage and dominance Eddie sliced off her vulgarity and strung her up while she was still fighting, satisfied with how limp and submissive she became once the blood started pouring.

And it still pours.

In retrospect, Eddie realized that she could have been strong enough to bear his child if he had been more…patient with her, but the fall of her life is enough to quell his desire for now. And Trager doesn't seem to mind spending his free time eating and watching her either, so Eddie doesn't see a need to regret much.

Until he meets his darling, that is.

But until then, he is content with hanging whores in the company of his companion. Yes, their relationship is strange, but he likes it this way. Almost like… friends.

Or parasites.


	4. Hello, Wooden Horses

The surgical room has a rather pungent odor to it, floating through the air precariously as if ready to target and attack anyone who defiles the rules of this place; which it might as well do, with how strong the stench is. Lightbulbs arbitrarily dangle between beds with curtains drawn around them. The drapes are thick and heavy, yet they wave in the dank air ever so slightly. In the dim light dull greens, blues, and greys merge together to create a monochromatic tinge within the standard shades of white, black, and brown. It highlights the splatters of crimson along the walls and floors, brightening the contrast brilliantly. How it paints the room is remotely artistic, and if one were to extensively analyze it then he would come to the conclusion that the drips and splatters were intentional.

At least it seems that way to Eddie Gluskin as he etches into the block of wood he found in the courtyard. In the midst of engendering one of his more spectacular dresses, Eddie was dragged from his home by the – very – persistent doctor. Trager claimed that he meant to tell Eddie about their little venture earlier, but it was clear as day that Trager's actions were as spontaneous as their bloomed relationship. And since Trager looked ready to burst or explore his workroom by the time Eddie shook away his shock, Gluskin didn't really think he had a say in the matter.

Humor Trager or allow the maniac to scavenge through his possessions? The answer wasn't that hard.

Which landed him on a wild adventure through the asylum for specific materials and machinary: rotary hammer drills, shin brace wraps, buzz saws, and surgical shears were just the tip of their investments. It would be a lie to say that he loathed the entirety of the scavenging, but he wasn't ecstatic about it either.

The sound of a drill spinning fills the room like a raw temptress, hips swaying in the wind and lip curled into a snarl, walking amid horrid cries and screams. The noise is followed by whimpering, and then piercing shrills rise over the demented laughter of a madman. It is wet and loud, whipping along the walls at a speed far too fast for him to grasp on to. As if it was a harmonious melody, Eddie listens to the screams and laughter while chipping away at the wood. He guides the tip of the knife in a large arc over the top before going over it again. He repeats the motions until the bark is thin enough for him to push through the other side and tear off the semi-circle. Another scream erupts from behind the curtain, but Eddie is too busy planning his next curve to truly pay attention.

"Buddy! This one's a fighter. Come over here and see for yourself."

"No, thank you," Eddie shakes his head despite knowing that Trager cannot see him, eyes not moving from the forming figure. "I am quite fine where I am."

"What a grandpa. Oh well, your-" A scream slices through Trager's words abruptly. "...One moment."

Eddie listens to the receding footsteps until they are no longer heard. There is silence, and then the tell-tale buzz of a saw shatters the eerie tranquility like glass. He waits for the demons around the corner to show their ugly heads again before lowering his gaze back to his wood work and flicking his wrist to chip at it. A slice here, a nick there. The block begins to take form with every piece of bark that falls off. A perfect circle. A sharp edge wedged into the wood across from another. He drowns out the agonized cries of death with the peaceful and crisp whispers of whittling. By the time the screams end, he is etching detail into the face of a horse.

"As I was saying, oh, wait that actually looks great."

The shadow across the room shifts into a rambunctious mass shadowing his work in less than two seconds. He can practically feel Trager breathing over him, warm breath circling over the exposed portion of his neck. Eddie has the urge to raise his collar to cover that area and stop the invasion of personal space, but decides to simply lift his head and place the horse in his lap. Because Trager is blocking the light from behind, his whole persona is illuminated in gold while dark shadows overwhelm his actual features. The picture is imposing, or at least would be for any other variant, but to Eddie it is nothing more than well placement of light and dark. Not to say that the blood spilled over Trager's chest and arms do not perfect the image.

Slowly, Eddie flips the horse in his palm, then holds it out for the doctor to look at.

"What an artisan," Trager breathes, plucking the horse out of Eddie's hand and into his own. "Although, I shouldn't be too surprised since you spend most of your free time designing those damned dresses. Which is a tad creepy, just saying, but whatever keeps the sails up, am I right? Your work is damn good."

Eddie nods his thanks. Awed by the craftsmanship, Trager flips the horse around in his palm and runs his finger along the fine lines that were in the process of being crafted. They are precise, with each line serving a purpose: emphasize a certain expression, contour another curve or edge, enhance the art as a whole. Well thought out, meaningful, and complete. The finished product will surely be astonishing.

Eddie licks his bottom lip. "Is there something wrong with it?"

"You're a strange one, Mr. Gluskin."

The way his eyebrows raise is almost comical. "Excuse me?"

"I don't think you belong here. Alright, maybe in a cracked up hospital somewhere for your dress fetish, sure, but what I meant by "here" is this year, this time period," Trager muses with his gaze glued to the horse. "You are a man out of your time. Not necessarily a bad thing, no, but I wonder why." He leans against the door that he entered from, arms crossing while one hand toys with the art. His gaze is piercing, resembling daggers when it finally lands on Eddie, who mentally cringes (not cowers) from the stare. Trager's lip curls into a crooked smile. "Tell me, what makes you this way? The split that has you flirting with women one second and then stabbing her to death in the next. Your passion for morals and values, that fierce sense of right and wrong. What causes you to see the world in such a monotonous way? I honestly want to know."

The voice is lilting, calm, coaxing Edie into a river of innocent curiosity. Trager wants to know why he is this way. A strange desire, for what specialty or allure does Eddie have to make the doctor want to understand him? Is the question truly innocent, or is Trager's curiosity more perverse than he is letting on? The music, his idiosyncrasies, is Eddie truly that peculiar? Suddenly, there's a hollow _something_ building in the pit of his stomach that grows the longer he looks at Trager. It manifests slowly, building a gradual pulse that soon snakes into his heart and wraps its claws around it. Crushing. He bites his lower lip with little consideration and averts his entire posture from the doctor.

He feels attacked. Like prey surrounded by bloodthirsty predators. Inching closer, closer, the questions resound like love notes from Satan in his ears. Sing to him a little louder, a little softer, a little deeper. Eddie's hands involuntarily ball into fists at his side.

What makes him this way? An old soul trapped in this body. Does he belong, is he welcomed - _oh,_ how the wedding bells ring so sweetly.

"Buddy?"

"I'm not sure," he chokes out.

The quiet that precedes is deafening.

Still avoiding contact with Trager, Eddie slumps deeper into the chair, dragging a foot up on it so he can rest his chin on his knee. He hears the shuffling to his right but doesn't look, already knowing who is moving and why. And within seconds, just as he predicted, Trager is dragging a chair next to his and plopping himself down. Something hard prods against his fist until it rubs enough times for Eddie to give in and take the damn horse in his hand.

"Have you heard about that shit kid Father Martin brought in here?"

What a nice opener. Eddie simply shakes his head. "You keep mentioning this Father Martin. Who is he?"

"Just some run off the mill priest that got sent here for, I don't know, sacrificing his church like lamb or something. I don't care too much for his background, but I know that since he's been here he's been trying to convert people into one form of worshippers or another. A load of shit if you ask me. Too bad the man is smart enough to avoid me. A tongue like that could be put to much better use, in my opinion." His tone is light, in the utmost passive way, but there is something more sinister laced in it that reminds Eddie of what the man sitting beside him is capable of.

"Anyway," Trager starts with a twirl of his wrist, "Father Fuck here has brought in an outsider to do his dirty work. Some kid. Which is a pity and shame, really."

"And why is that?"

Trager tilts his head and shrugs. "Because I'll have to kill him. Hear that he's fairly close to my little...clinic and needs a checkup. Possibly donate an organ or two, nothing spectacular." He glances at Eddie and catches the man staring at him with a little less than amused expression. "What? Rather I do it than one of those dirty whores you've been chasing around. I'm sure you can agree."

And though it is left unspoken, Eddie agrees with the doctor. Those filthy whores do not deserve the satisfaction of a kill - much less the air they breathe. But he doesn't say it, if only to force their hands back into familiar silence; Trager yawns and twists his body opposite to Eddie while the groom fixes his energy back on the half finished horse.

He whittles away at the wood until the desired shape is formed. Dragging the tip of the knife along leg muscles and the arch of the horse's back, he then curvs wisps into the wood to create an impression of flowing hair. As time passes he is drawn further into blankness. All that matters is the rotation of his wrist and the cut it presses into the wood, conjuring splinters and allure. Eddie bathes in the silence surrounding him, allowing him to dive deeper into the recesses of his psyche.

_"Whore! There's nowhere for you to run!"_

_"Get back here! Meat! Meat! Whore!"_

The change in nature incites a shock to his system. He bristles at the language being thrown so nonchalantly in the air, as if whorish souls were a practical joke and not the degradation of virgin women. The frown settled on his face intensifies as the voices draw near. Their footsteps are no longer taps but thuds, loud and ringing through the walls.

Someone is being chased. He can hear it, the ragged breathing and exertion masking whimpers and cries. Salty tears enhanced by fear are so evident that he can practically taste it. And by the way Trager has brightened up, he assumes that it is the case for him too.

"It's that kid," Trager bubbles not unlike a child on Christmas.

"How do you know?"

"Who else would it be?" The thuds sharpen immensely at that moment. Eddie glares down at the floor as if to see the culprit through the flooring, since the crashes and huffs seemed to be directly below them. How can Trager be so sure when they can't even see the floor below? It doesn't make sense. And he lifts his glare to target it on Trager, but the moment he does his head explodes into searing pain.

It radiates from his temples, warm and pulsating as he crashes shoulder first onto the ground. Eyes clenched shut, his teeth involuntarily grind and pinch the side of his tongue. Through the heavy fog clouding his mind (pain, pain is clouding his thoughts), Eddie can make out the excited ramblings of Trager. _Trager._ Did he-?

"I'm so sorry, buddy, but this is beyond a gift."

The enthusiasm behind Trager's voice scratches his ears like chalk on a blackboard. Between the hollers and ecstasy, all Eddie wants is to hold his palms over his ears to muffle the sounds. The ringing in his ear is far too persistent. He grits his teeth and tries to open his eyes, managing to get only one half way open. While his peripherals are horrid, straight ahead isn't blurry enough to hinder his sight, so he twists and worms forward until he has a decent line to Trager and the rest of the room.

The doctor rushes about the room and hall frantically, tarp wrapped tightly around his waist swinging as he paces. Gesticulating. He mumbles as he walks with one hand relentlessly cupping his chin, irregularly scratching - rather, scraping - while the other tosses about knives and screws. Eddie watches him in silence, forcing his body to remain limp so as not to attract any attention. From the way his body convulses with pent-up energy, Trager is just a bomb ticking away.

So when he grabs a particularly long pair of scissors and begins to approach Eddie, a tremble rakes through his body before the Groom is jumping to his feet and putting up his guard, only for the doctor to snatch him by his collar and toss him back on the floor. It doesn't register to Eddie what had happened until he was laid flat on the ground again, staring up at Trager with only a quarter of his vision. He must have lost footing (how can Trager so easily toss him?)

"Oh, buddy. I feel a little bad for doing that. Promise. But if you hadn't noticed, I'm especially busy at the moment," Trager coos while moving to crouch in front of Eddie. Gently, he caresses Eddie's chin with the tip of the rusted scissors. "So what I'm going to do is be the good friend that we both wanted out of each other." The point nicks under Eddie's chin, eliciting a low gasp from him that barely escapes before he is forcing his lips shut. The gesture only serves to make Trager bark with laughter, which shoves the scissors further on to Eddie's skin and cause the other to tilt his chin as far to the side as humanly possible. He opens his mouth to tell the mad variant to move the damn blades before he makes a mistake, but somehow his desires are answered before he has time to voice them.

Thoroughly confused, Eddie shuffles onto his feet and levels Trager an annoyed and insistent stare.

"What do you say, friend? Let me have at it?"

* * *

He watches the rain pour languidly, resting the palm of his hand on the cool window to feel some of the chill the rain has brought. Howls of wind mingle with the pleasant drum of pouring water, creating a relaxing harmony of nature that transfers into his being. Sighing, Eddie presses closer to the window with half-lidded eyes. The sensation is similar to dreaming, except with a lucidity that allows him to feel new and old sensations at the same intensity. It's like gazing out from the highest building in a megalopolis to watch the nightlife pass by, or like staring off into the horizon as the sun sets behind orange canyons. Eddie's mind is drifting between hidden caverns and uncut forest leaves, thoughts dancing among Ghost Dancers and ballroom geniuses. He is sweeping through closed closets and dark rooms when, in the only spot of moonlight in the room, he catches a tempting silhouette.

The curve of her body, her long legs. Palms sweaty, he approaches her slowly as if a single rushed step will shatter her glory. Her image. In his mind's eyes, Eddie smiles at his beloved wife and holds her by her waist, tracing a delicate finger along her similarly delicate collarbone and neck. He curls his fingers to cup her ears and gazes deep into her eyes. Big and brown, like sweet milk chocolate. Beside his pounding heart he can feel hers leaping, and in that moment Eddie, without closing his eyes, leans closer in a secret attempt to brush their wanting lips together.

Thunder roars over his head as the icy window bites his lips with cold wetness.

Eddie shakes his head and retreats from the window. Chuckling, he drags the back of his hand over the smudge left on the glass before bringing the same hand up to scratch the back of his head. Fortunately for his ego, no one was there to witness such an embarrassment. Under the clash of lightning and another round of thunder, Eddie circles back through the hall he came from and makes his way to his home.

_"..I have looked all over, but no girlie can I find. Who seems to be just-"_

"Like the little girlie I have in mind," he sings with the tune, humming the rest of the verse carelessly. Though the loudness of the storm brewing outside has lessen to a mere rumble, Eddie appreciates its persistence. A soft background to the relative silence of the vocational block, with only a single working radio to drown out the moans from a nearby hall. He'll have to deal with those heathens later, but for now he has some work to get back to.

When he returns to his workroom, the dress is still there draped graciously around a fresh mannequin. Silk ruffles wave over each other until it hits the floor, and even then the fabric coils fantastic around the mannequin's feet. Despite not having finished the torso of the dress, Eddie is proud of his work, which is uncommon for how much he's willing to destroy most of his pieces beside dangling bodies of whores. Funny realizing how the gymnasium must smell like rot and scorched fabric. Eddie laughs at the thought. His darling will surely appreciate how cynical he is towards his work, if only to make something beyond godly for her.

Eddie cracks his knuckles for good measure before scanning the room for a seat without any fabric on it. It takes an effort to find one, actually having to scoot aside a few stuffed chairs in order to pluck an old wooden one from the back, but the journey only makes him more anxious to set it in front of his dearest dress and begin the relaxing labor.

And then he hears it.

The footsteps. So small and petite that if he wasn't in dead silence he would have easily missed it. They whisper through the walls gently, coaxing and lazy in their ways as the owner of those meticulous feet stumble through his halls. Eddie raises an eyebrow. These steps are not like the heavy, careless ones of his usual whores. They are short and borderline silent, very cautious of each creek it makes. Like a fairy pacing around her garden.

A girlie.

Suddenly he no longer has the desire to sew but to search, heart beginning to speed in his chest as he practically shoves the chair aside and runs out of the room. Could this be her? His dear? His one and only beloved who will hold his heart in her sweetest hands and give him his first son. It must be, _has to be_ , with how his heart is thumping and how his clothes are becoming unbearably warm.

But he must not frighten her, so slows his steps to match hers, finding her pattern rather easy to emulate. They walk on different sides of the world yet still together, inhaling as one and then exhaling the same breath. Eddie begins to feel lightheaded from the promise. Something nagging tells him that he needs to slow down and think this through before letting his heart and desire run amuck - how many times has this same scenario happened before? Where he believes that _this_ one is his love, when in actuality she is just another slut? Too many for him to even keep count, sadly, but this feels different. His steps feels different. _He_ feels different.

Silently, Eddie turns a corner and is confronted with a door. The entirety of the hall is dark, too dark, for it is a little difficult for him to see more than a foot in front of him. Regardless, he reaches forward. There is a creek from the other side of the wall - oh, she must sense him too - and then he has to hold his breath.

The handle to the doors rumble like the cry of an erupting volcano, and although the ash fills the air right as he breathes, constricting his lungs the moment they invade, Eddie beams with the light of the sun.

_"Darling."_


	5. Case Number 196

Fear is simply the product of anxiety and risk, darkness shrouding corners and shadowing inklings of light as they seep through dusty windows and reflect off of shattered glass. Cracked shards of hope embed ripe hearts as the night creeps on and the moon settles high on its pedestal. Fear is the glue that holds together broken minds and tattered souls. It sews the pieces together to form disturbing remnants of what normal life should be. It morphs figures and silhouettes into monsters, engender unspoken whispers, and call upon every doubt and skeleton in one's closet to remind him of his sins.

Fear is fleshy karma being sliced by a dull razor blade; it is the cold sweat that pools under layers of thin clothes and chills bone. It is irrational, abrupt, and catastrophic. Fear itself is an arguable sensation, but when the haze of hatred begins to manifest into something more real, more tangible, that is when someone should truly feel terrified. When fear encompasses a bleeding heart and crying soul, it spreads its tendrils until that person is a living vessel of darkness, a personal abyss. Then and only then is fear a reality and absolute, but this fear is rarely thought to exist.

Rarely, until it is screaming in your face and digging its bloody claws into you.

"Did I frighten you? I'm awfully sorry, I didn't mean to." The voice, deep and smooth with an accent that Waylon Park cannot place, resounds through the recreational room like waves from the ocean, cascading over the air before submerging it in sound. It is charming in the cheapest of ways, yet completely wholehearted, which invokes a shiver that runs down Waylon's spine. He lifts the camera to search in the direction from which the voice radiates, but he can't make out the figure even with the thermal light on. Clicking the infrared off, Waylon crawls out from under the table he found safety in and scurries to the one adjacent to it, peering around the leg for a better view.

"We've met before haven't we? I know I've seen your face. Maybe…just before I woke up." This time the voice is closer, and if Waylon holds his shaky breaths he can make out the quiet echo of steps. "Though it seems like a dream now, being here with you."

Nearer, nearer, the variant draws closer until his silhouette shifts into defined lines and features. It is far enough away for Waylon to not be spotted if he stays in the dark, but close enough for the software engineer to feel his skin begin to prick in horror. Calculated movements silently lift the camera to Waylon's eye and turn the light back on.

The man across the room is familiar, a realization that drops Waylon's heart to his stomach for more reasons than he can explain. Who is this man? His memories are blurry from the engine – objects and shapes flash before his eyes, a headache threatens to rip a groan from his chapped lips – though Waylon is sure that his frazzled thoughts would have altered the memory, even without the machine. However, the thought settles neither his heart nor anxiety, nor the adrenaline pumping through his system preparing him to flee when the next available chance comes.

"Let me fill you up."

Another involuntary shiver rips through him. Keeping his camera angled on the pacing variant, Waylon lets a few heartbeats pass before dashing to the other side of the room, light on his toes and hoping to God, Muhammad, and Buddha that he won't crash into something. For a brief second he angles the camera in front of him to double check the area before sliding under a table and placing his focus back on the man. If it were not for his insistent shaking, Waylon would have smiled at his silence.

The feeling lasts only a few seconds.

He listens to the floorboards creek under heavy weight as the man turns around and starts back towards the way he came – the way Waylon is gradually inching to. His form is tall and brooding, sharp eyes catching the light of the infrared and practically glowing. The tailored vest, pants, and gloves remind Waylon of gentlemen from the 50s, swindlers who'd dance with girls for hours just to move on to the next one once the deed was done. Clever. The atmosphere around this man contrasts drastically with the patients Waylon has encountered before, as if this one is more aware of reality. It is confusing, especially with how familiar he seems, and does nothing to ease his worries.

"You don't have to be alone anymore," the man coos. "You could make me whole. I could fill that emptiness inside of you. Let me love you."

There's a rustle to Waylon's right, and the engineer swings his body to the left while aiming the camera in that direction. He stumbles back and looks around yet sees nothing but air and shadows. The disturbance is gone, vanished, leaving him staring off at empty tables and sewing machines. And he almost let himself sigh, almost allows himself to chuckle at the fright, until a deeper voice reaches his ears.

"Darling, where are you?"

The jolt causes him to stumble into a table, rocking it, eliciting a rough screech of wood on wood that ensnares Waylon where he stands. Pain blossoms in his hips and begins to drum through his pelvis from where he ran into the table edge, but Waylon doesn't have time to focus on the ache before he catches the figure from across the room coming to a halt and then turning around.

He raises his camera to the man, and the glow of a smile on crooked lips pummel his soul into the ground. It takes him less than a second.

He dashes for the room the man came out of, sprinting as fast as he can for a destination unknown. Closed doors, shattered glass, and pools of blood greet him joyously. They hold out their hands to shake – capture – his, but he jumps away from their grasp. A bloody mannequin in a (wedding?) dress smiles at him as he rushes down a hall, and he stares back at her (him?) for longer than necessary, feeling his heart sink further in that now familiar void.

The thundering footsteps from behind seem to have come to a halt, disappearing with no resemblance of a warning, but he doesn't stop running until iron begins to cloud his taste buds. His mouth tastes like musk and blood. Waylon spits the disgusting concoction onto the floor and rubs a palm over his eyes, wiping off forgotten tears and grime.

 _Darling._ The word brings bile up his throat and he wants to double over and dry heave until the feeling leaves, but if he did that he would be gagging for days, possibly months. Has the sickness already settled in? Manifesting itself into a spirit welled deep inside of him, biding its time until it seeps into his mind and plays him like a damn fiddle, a marionette? Waylon shakes his head. Whoever this monster is, he won't let him become his downfall. It's just another chase, isn't it? This bastard is just another sicko to avoid while he searches for a way out. Once he's out of these halls he'll be home free. It will be a walk in the park to leave. This nightmare won't last forever.

So he shakes off as much nervousness and anxiety as he can and then looks around the room he has found himself in. Spacious, with a few tables cluttering one corner of the room, and a splatter of blood covering another, blocking a doorway to his left. Light pours in through windows aligned on the right wall, showcasing pouring rain and a few flashes of lightning. Waylon peers through the door he came in through carefully, but doesn't see any man approaching or, God help him, standing at the doorway, so he turns his back to it and walks further into the room.

"When I was a boy my mother often said to me, get married son and see how happy you will ve…"

_Shit._

His legs launch him forward without so much as a second's hesitance. He stumbles over cracked wooden planks until he notices a gas tank container, and almost has a nervous breakdown right then. This couldn't be real. But as he lets his camera drop to dangle against his ribcage and places his hands on the cold metal, the chill is too tangible to be a façade. Swallowing harshly, Waylon tries to block out the singing and push the container just enough to let him slip through.

"I will have to look around until the right one I have found. I want a girl,"

Waylon pushes the tanks away and then crashes through the door.

"Just like the girl that married dear, old Dad."

Why does that fucker sound so close?

Shallow breaths intermingle with shorter, faster ones. He can feel himself hyperventilating, feel the cold sweat sip the heat from his body and leave him shivering as he runs. Waylon fights back tears but it's an uphill battle and he's losing. Losing. He chokes on his own spit and heaves sharply. Hiccups. A strangled shove at a door wrenches his wrist to the side and pain shoots up his arm.

"Darling. You could be so beautiful."

He sprints into a room full of large tanks and slams the door shut.

"I want you to have my baby!"

He has to stop and breathe. It would've killed him if he didn't. Shoving his palms onto a table, he leans over it and sucks in as much breath as he can, squeezing his eyes shut to fight the tears and help hold the breath. One… two… Exhale slowly, allow the tremble to ravage his bones and turn his muscles into jelly. Three, inhale slowly, ignore the hollow noises that creak through the room. Something bumps against his finger, making him fidget, but when he peeks an eye open he sees that the object is harmless.

Waylon replaces his camera's battery with a click. Beads of light dance through the windows languidly, giving up enough of it for Waylon not to need his camera. Meticulous steps carry him through the maze of desks and machinery until he comes across a door parallel to him, and the man standing outside of it.

Like a love sick, sad puppy; the comparison churns Waylon's stomach. Wasting no more time on staring at the variant, he leaps over a table and runs to the nearest door, which has been blessed with yet another container blocking it. Absentmindedly, he curses Fate as he moves to shove the tanks again, and feels his entire being shift in terror as the lost puppy from before follows suit and jumps over said table.

Somehow he manages to evade the man's grasp right as he runs through the open door. He doesn't have time to think or regret not shoving the door in Satan's face, thoughts flying out of his mind as air and survival take reigns over him. And there's a light coming from around the corner, unnatural and whirling with manmade power. Adrenaline pumps through him, pushing him harder, faster, for there's a light coming from an open doorway.

An elevator shaft. And there's a ladder, a red ladder that runs along the opposite wall and if he can just make the jump he'll be fine – he'll be safe. He'll be able to get away. The blood in his mouth tastes sweet for it is filled with hope. Raw, untamed, hope. Hope –

That is squashed like an annoying bug as soon as he readies himself for the leap. Calloused fingers wrap around his wrist with lightning speed and wrench his arm back, but the pull is untimely. Waylon, having already jumped towards the ladder, is yanked mid-air and slammed against the concrete railing, knee knocking into the hard surface. He cries out in frustration and pain, wetness pricking his eyes but he doesn't have the strength, nor care, to halt the floodgates from opening.

He was so close, _so close,_ practically tasting salvation on the tip of his tongue.

"Oh god. Oh god, are you okay?" The man shouts from above, tone laced with worry. "Tell me that you're okay. I hate to think of you suffering without me. Here, let me pull you up," he says, and the grip around Waylon's wrist is partnered with one above his elbow.

He is pulled up like ragdoll, like some child's toy that has had the misfortune of falling. Waylon allows this but doesn't put in effort to help the variant or fight him, body and mind too exhausted to pry off the grip and possibly fall to his demise. Strangely, however, he holds no fear towards that end – it would be quick and easy, and he wouldn't have to endure whatever comes next. But this is fatigue speaking, and through an acute sense of self-preservation does he hold onto the lone thread of instinct and survival that hangs before him. He has to leave this place, has to _live,_ if only to hug his children one more time.

He is rolled onto the floor with an _oof._ The cold, wooden floors tease his skin as he drags himself onto his hands and knees, not quite pulling the hands on his arms off but leaning his body away from them. They remain securely there in spite of his efforts, and Waylon has to ignore the tremble that shakes him again.

"Darling, what were you thinking?" the man asks, eyes wide and glistening with what Waylon reluctantly acknowledges as betrayal and worry. "Why would you do such a thing? You could have gotten yourself killed." He shakes his head and sighs before leveling his gaze back on Waylon, hands sliding up the engineer's arms to grip his shoulders painfully.

"My dear… You are, more beautiful than I could have ever imagined." His voice is soothing, a false calm as the psychopath glides his fingers gently along Waylon's collar and jaw line, cupping his head behind his ears. Waylon's breath hitches at the smooth affection, his skin crawling wherever those grotesque hands go. Heart racing, it pounds in his chest and he wonders if the man before him can hear the thunder.

It is then that the pieces begin to fall together, sliding one by one into a forgotten jigsaw puzzle. His apparel, diction, and formality all justifies the projection of a man out of his time, the "darlings" emphasizing a point that has been made repeatedly. The Man Downstairs. The Groom. Mr. Gluskin. Waylon's head whirls in memory and he suddenly feels a headache oncoming.

_Case number 196._

_Eddie Gluskin._

Warmth envelops him and Waylon doesn't realize that he's being cradled in Eddie's lap until the shuffling in his ears stop, and he can make out startled whispers above his head. They're muffled by the, surprisingly soft, fabric pressed against his temple and the fingers curling around his ear and rustling strands of hair. He wants to move out of the embrace, wants to claw and punch and kick his way out of this damned grasp and block, but there's pressure being exerted on his aching kneecap that steadily increases.

Waylon groans and shifts, but the hands toying with him are relentless in their efforts, coaxing a growl from the back of his throat and a twitch. And then an involuntary kick that only encourages the pressure. Waylon snaps his head forward and stares wildly at the foot grinding against his knee, attempting to yank himself from the hold but ends up entangled in a web of stronger arms and legs.

"Darling," Eddie grunts, "I suggest that you stop struggling now. I may end up breaking your neck."

A scream tears past his lips. Heat surges through his knee and shin, sending agony in tides like a letter in a bottle swimming through waves. He grits his teeth to stop the show of fear and pain which only leads him to hissing and whimpering. An arm hooks around his waist and pulls him further on to Eddie, back now pressed against the Groom's chest. His arm is twisted and held firmly behind his back as the foot on his knee digs deeper.

Eddie growls in his ear. "Were you… You'd rather die than be with me? Is that what you were trying to do?" He twists Waylon's arm and is greeted with a cry. "I was blinded by your beauty, but I will not be shamed by a whore. So tell me, _darling_ ," he snarls mockingly, a true contradiction to the purr of the nickname earlier, "are you here to make a mockery of me? Are you just a little slut?"

The hold is unyielding, fierce, and with each passing second the agony coursing through his veins intensifies. Waylon struggles against it, his entire body pushing and wiggling, trying to pinpoint weak spots but the search is fruitless. He clenches his eyes shut and grinds his teeth, accidentally biting his tongue and cheek to the point of cutting them. Blood pools into his mouth in trickles and soon he is fighting nausea too. It is reckless and ridden with failure, he knows, yet he can't bring himself to submit. There has to be a way out, has to be a way to wiggle out from Eddie's arms and escape. Isn't there always a way out? Isn't there always a path to freedom?

Except when there isn't, and one is left alone in the darkness surrounded by wolves. The depression comes on quick and allows despair to seep into his movements. A chocked sob parts his lips and he falls into a fit of huffs and crying, no longer pushing against the arms but settling, reluctantly and without intention, into them. He inhales air without oxygen and coughs up methane. His head throbs along with his body, a melancholy ache that persists instead of dulling. Eddie moves under him, and for a split moment Waylon believes that the madman will give him space to crawl out, but that thought is crushed as soon as it springs.

Instead, the larger man drags the arm that was around his waist up to his chest so his hand can pinch Waylon's chin, carefully tilting his head upwards. Waylon's tearful stare is met with piercing blue encompassed by bloody red. It is unsettling, among everything else, and the bastard has the audacity to smile at him.

Eddie speaks softly. "Oh, darling, you will make a lovely wife someday, once I've made an honest woman of you. With such wonderful tears streaking your cheeks… I can tell that you are not a whore, not with those eyes."

The hold on Waylon loosens as rustling sounds in its place; however, he makes no effort to move, knowing that the subsequent pain will probably have him clinging onto life. So he anxiously waits for the Groom to do whatever he is doing, basking in this moment to think of Lisa and still his shuddering breath. When he finally comes back to the present, there is a can hovering over his head with a surgical-masked Eddie watching him.

"I know you must be just as eager as I am to consummate our love. But try to enjoy the anticipation," is what Waylon hears before a cloud of green is being forced in his face. He chokes on the gas and tries to turn his head away but Eddie is holding him in place. The taste of chlorine mixes with the metallic on his tongue, and the chemical burns his nose raw.

As his mind fades into a bleak abyss, Waylon catches the glistening of an excited, bloody blue stare.


	6. Gimme Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gimme Shelter" - The Rolling Stones

" _You have amazing bone structure…"_

Darkness. It penetrates with a lethal syringe and bleeds through his body and mind, serenading his entire being with isolated warmth. His fingers are chilled. His breathing is irregular and slow. Toes involuntarily curl as something warm travels up his thigh and stops at his pelvis. Waylon's eyelids twitch but he is far from full consciousness.

_"…Such soft skin…"_

The voice rings loud again, more concentrated and acute. Not unlike a fishing line, it hooks into him and begins the arduous effort of reeling him back into reality. But he doesn't want to go back, so he fights it. Clenches his eyes shut and mentally jerks away from the seepage of light brightening the darkness behind eyelids. It's so peaceful here in the unknown. He doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to go –

_"You're going to be so beautiful."_

White light blurs his vision when he opens his eyes a little too quickly, sending a pulse of dizziness through him. Waylon squints at it before turning his head to the side and quietly groaning. His body feels like a freshly battered punching bag, with aches and pains running up and down his legs, chest, and arms. Despite how the brightness has lessened, objects in the distance blend in with those nearer, turning edges and shapes into dully colored blobs. Surrealism is uncanny in these shaded figments of reality, yet he cannot decide between which ones are actually there or not. He blinks once, twice, but the answer is not within reach.

A ruffle of movement to his right moves him to glance in its direction, and it is then that he notices the trap binding him.

Legs strung apart in the air, thick rope ties his ankles to wooden posts in the same way that rope locks his wrists to another set of wood. He pulls against the hold but the rope doesn't budge, fastened so tightly around bone that red welts are already beginning to form. He kicks, hard, but the product is the same. Nothing. Waylon's heart begins to pound and slowly he becomes more aware of his surroundings.

The light from above has dimmed enough for him to notice how the room is shrouded in darkness except in this one spot. The light bulb is bright, immensely so, which emphasizes the spray of blood on the walls and doorway. And he feels all the more disgusted. All of him exposed, privacy and dignity thrown out of the window and on display for whoever dares to look – the thought settles deep in his mind. Exposed. For these variants to gawk at and grab, grip and steal, their calloused and cut fingers reaching for his most vulnerable bits. Waylon breathes in sharply, breath catching in his throat, and all thoughts are thrown off when a sudden coughing fit leaves him gasping for air.

"Oh, my dear, when did you wake up? Are you alright?" The voice radiates from where he heard the ruffling, and then the sound of footsteps ring in his ears. "Darling? Darling, do control your coughing. Here, this will help."

The press of cold glass on his lips leads to refreshing wetness on his tongue, and Waylon gulps the liquid as if it were from the fountain of youth. The water cools and clears his throat, and he only has to cough once more before the feeling leaves completely. He drinks the rest of the water hastily and is washed in disappointment when the entire glass is downed. His lips smack when the cup is pulled away from him, with Waylon following it until the stretch in his neck becomes painful.

The glass cup clinks on metal soon after. "I will give you more shortly, darling, but for now I'd like for you to look at me. I miss the brilliance of my love's gaze," the voice above says gently.

Waylon's throat dries almost immediately.

He lifts his gaze slowly, careful to avert his stare from looking directly at Eddie, but the man realizes this and decides to take matters into his own hands, literally, by cupping Waylon's chin and leaning over the table so that he is all Waylon can see. Waylon tries to pull his chin away but that only makes Eddie's grip tighten.

"Your eyes…they are like a dream; an ocean of emotion that I can easily fall into and peacefully drown in. How can a man not see this, your beauty? And I am only looking at your eyes," he chuckles. "Darling, I am a transfixed man, and you are my sole focus. Do you feel it too, my love?"

 _Fuck no,_ Waylon wants to spit, scream, and slander, but he keeps his tongue bitten despite the searing pain between his teeth. Eddie watches him intently, and when it is evident that Waylon won't respond he simply sighs. "I guess you won't be able to answer right now, considering how dehydrated you are and this new, ah, situation," he gestures to the wood, rope, and table, "but I can see how anxious you are to become mine. Perhaps, we both want this equally?" A smile splits Eddie's lips as he looks at Waylon lovingly, so vile and twisted that Waylon has to blink hard to force the bile from rising.

"But we can save that for after the ceremony."

Ceremony? Waylon's eyes widen and he pushes forward in an attempt to sit up. The ropes yank him back, jerking his right shoulder awkwardly, but he still struggles to follow Eddie as he walks around the table. He opens his mouth to speak, ask what the hell he meant by ceremony, but what comes out is a helpless little squeak that Waylon doesn't even believe Eddie heard. He tries again. The squeak turns into an alien grumble. He grits his teeth in frustration and pulls on the rope harshly, bruising his wrists profusely yet not caring about it in the least.

Why can't he speak? Just say something, _anything,_ make Eddie explain himself. "Cer." The syllable scratches at his throat painfully. "Cere… Cer… Ceremo..ny. Ceremony." He clears his throat and gasps the word. "Ceremony. I – no, wha…what ceremony-" Breath catching, he inhales sharply and flexes his fingers, trying to calm his racing heart and allow air to fill his lungs. By now Eddie has turned to gawk at him, an eyebrow raced in confusion while his eyes light in amused concern.

"Oh darling, what other ceremony is there to behold if not our wedding?" The variant beams, proud and excited and bubbling with enthusiasm. He rushes back over to Waylon's side and clasps a strangled hand between his, the surprise warmth shocking Waylon. "Once you're fixed, I will begin preparation for our wedding. I figured that you would need time to recover and adjust, so I decided to postpone the planning until after your surgery. Oh! The anticipation is dire." Eddie runs a calloused hand down Waylon's side, dipping his fingers into the small gaps between each rib. "But you're going to look so beautiful. And our children… You will be a great mother."

The hand stops somewhere at his hip, too close for Waylon's liking, sending pulses of nausea through the engineer.

A wedding; the thought refuses to solidify. He is already a married man. Children: he has two sons. Although their faces are elusive, Waylon clearly remembers their presence and importance. He can't remarry. And surgery? He has an inkling of what type of surgery Eddie wants, and it makes the nausea in him surge, forcing him to bite back the powerful urge to vomit. He rolls his head to the side and gags, mind and body numb, stomach churning and his nose burning because of how strong the scent of iron is. He opens his eyes to crimson and realizes that the blood isn't his; it's dry.

A scream claws past his lips. He punches and kicks and jerks his entire body, maneuvering in every which way to see if _something_ will make his binds bend, or twist, or lack, or do anything that will glimpse at escape. It is all he needs. But the more he moves the more he realizes that the rope is too strong and the wooden posts are too solid. Burning hands grip his chest, his shoulders, pushing him against splintered wood to stop him from moving.

"Darling."

"No! _No!_ Stop – let go of me! Please, stop!"

" _Darling!"_

A solid punch in the gut cuts off any movement Waylon was in the process of. His body goes limp as he struggles to breathe in, finding it difficult to hold his breath for even a second. He must have been hyperventilating. Through blurred vision he follows the recoil of a muscled arm and guides his gaze up to the snarling owner's face. Tense. Angered. A hateful expression on scarred flesh.

"You're making this hard on yourself, _slut._ If you loved me, you wouldn't do this."

Waylon wanted to confirm that statement, confirm how much he deeply loathes this psychopath, but the argument is detrimental, he knows, so he bites his tongue. As if he could have spoken anyway.

Swallowing, Waylon tries to focus on Eddie and the trap that the variant is now toying with. If he looks down he can't see anything below his crotch, which unnerves him the most. Why are his legs spread? It must be for the surgery, easier access he supposes, but there's something else that Eddie has been fond of touching. It'll occasionally _tink_ , edging Waylon's suspicion towards metal. But he doesn't have much time to ponder whatever contraption is between his legs before Eddie is once again capturing his attention, now holding a rather long blade.

Eddie admires the knife, gliding a gloved finger along its edge carefully and with a small smile, as if it was his favorite weapon to use. Holds it up towards the single light bulb dangling halfheartedly so the light can reflect and make the blade glisten, and once his inspection is done he plunges it into a mason jar filled with a blue liquid. The scent that erupts is strong.

"Bleach," Waylon groans.

"Would be a shame if you died from infection," Eddie says, his tone indifferent and without much care, as if the reply was automatic. Waylon watches him twirl the blade around until the blue shifts into purple, and then pull it out and dry it on a relatively white towel. While wiping off the knife, Eddie tilts his chin toward Waylon. "Darling, I want you to listen to me carefully. Very carefully, or else I won't be able to help you through this."

Waylon's stomach churns. He looks at Eddie intently, with wide eyes and a confused expression.

"A woman…has to suffer many things. It's not pleasant, I know. But just try to…endure. For my sake. For the sake of our children." He speaks barely above a whisper, looking over every inch of Waylon slowly, critiquing. If Waylon wasn't staring back, he would not have noticed it. Noticed the way Eddie's hand shifted silently and slowly, slight movements that were just barely there. His body roars in protest when he feels the cold blade settle right above pelvis, pointing intently at his sex.

"It won't take long dear, I promise. Only a few snips here and…here," fingers brush the inside of Waylon's thigh for emphasis, "and then I'll create a home for my seed. A place inside that will carry them. Our children.

"You're frightened, yes? I can see it in your eyes how scared you are. But there is no need to fear, my love, for I am here. I won't leave you through any of this, and if you need to cry I will wipe your tears away. I'll be careful with you, darling. Oh, how I've been practicing for this moment. This will be perfect. I know that I can do this," he whispers, more so to himself. And then he looks back at Waylon. "Darling! Oh, no, please don't cry now. There will be time for that once the surgery has begun."

He hadn't even realized that he was crying, but now that Eddie has pointed it out it takes Waylon in one quick swoop and leaves him sobbing in frustration and fear. The dam has broken, releasing pent up energy in a flood of sorrow. Waylon wants to cover his face – his chest, his privates – but the ropes refuse to move. He knows better than to pull and fight again, but he doesn't know what else to do. He feels himself crumbling, shattering, the blade pointing into his flesh and the short jolt that catches his body ends with a small incision on his hip.

Waylon cries out. The cut is less of a cut and more of a nick but it promises more, and he doesn't want more. It'll kill him. Another sob ravages him and his entire body shakes. The chill of the blade is now a fiery heat. He moves against it but the sensation is stationary. He hears Eddie speaking but can't make out the words. He sounds panicked. He sounds worried. He sounds annoyed and ready to attack but Waylon is too far in his own shithole to be dragged out by a threat.

Maybe Eddie will just kill him. Maybe he won't survive (he won't survive, it is impossible). Waylon wants to accept this conclusion but for some reason he can't. Maybe it's Lisa, or the children, but his mind refuses to completely process his sure end. The blade scratches the surface of his flesh, and he feels a fresh trail of blood drip down his thigh. It isn't long or deep, but again, it promises more.

More.

More.

_More._

"I'm going to die," Waylon whimpers pathetically into his shoulder. He shudders and chokes on his own tears.

The blade stops moving.

"What did you just – Darling?"

"I won't… I'm going to-to die."

Waylon hiccups and snorts. He rolls his head to the other side, away from Eddie; it is a futile attempt to hide his shame and fear, but it is all he can do. It must be a figment of his imagination, but he feels a breeze cool his overheated body, calming him in a wisp of surrealism. And then he's floating. Higher, higher, Waylon wonders how far he can go before he leaves his body completely. Eyes closed, breathing haggard, he feels himself cool and drift away in a sea of air. Hysterical.

The illusion only lasts a few seconds before his eyes are being compelled open. The pressure on his hip is gone except for the ache of a bleeding cut, and he can no longer feel the ominous presence of Eddie standing over him. Standing…over…

His neck could have snapped from how fast he turned his head, but all he receives is heavy whiplash. Where Eddie should have been is air, emptiness, with the blade that was set to emasculate him out of sight. Daring to look at his hip, he cringes at the streaks of blood flowing between his legs and smeared on his thighs (finger prints, Eddie must have touched him). And his penis…

The sight simultaneously terrifies and relieves him. Eddie is gone – but where has he gone off to?

Waylon moves to try his hand at loosening the rope again – this time with thought and strategy – but the moment he wiggles his wrist a large hand grabs him, snatching Waylon's attention up and to the being holding him still.

It isn't Eddie.

Glazed eyes bore into his, piercing and dead despite the clear life that this man possesses. Violent trimmers convulse him, causing the image of a banshee to take over and Waylon no longer sees the disturbing variant as a human but as a monster. A demon. Stitches close reddened semicircles under breasts that should not be there, holding up lumps that don't belong. The monster steps back, whimpering incomprehensibly, until his pelvis is clearly seen. His pelvis, with a wide gash splitting him in two.

" _Help…me…"_ the monster whispers brokenly. He steps back with a large gait, bowed legs emphasizing the bloody hole. _"My child…my children… Help- help us."_

Horror creeps up Waylon's spine and holds him still. He stares at him, the monster, frozen. Watches him tremble and fumble into shadows, back into whatever black abyss he crawled out of.

"See, darling. I promise that you won't die."

Eddie is standing over him again, but this time leaning directly above Waylon and holding his shoulders down to keep Waylon looking at him. A violent tremble shakes him down to his core.

"Do you not trust me? Why? I have only been sincere with you darling, and you have fought me from the beginning."

Waylon whimpers quietly. "I… I don't –"

"You don't _what?_ You don't want to be with me, _you dirty whore?_ " Eddie growls, gripping Waylon's shoulders hard enough to leave dark bruises. Waylon grimaces at the pain and, thinking fast, cries out a sharp "No!"

Eddie stops squeezing, but he doesn't loosen his grip either. "…Why?"

"That- that man. Y-you did the surgery on him, right?" The answer is obvious, but he waits for Eddie to nod. "You can't do that t-to me-" Waylon cries and jolts when the Eddie digs his fingers against the skin beneath his collar bone. In a sharp gasp, he corrects, "Our children! If you do-do that to me then I can't… I can't have our children!"

"What do you mean, bitch?"

"I'm not ready! I… If I had the surgery I w-won't live. It will kill me. Eddie," Waylon groans, "please, please wait for me. I t-trust you. But I can't… I won't… think of the _children._ "

It's a stretch, but Waylon whines the word as if his life depended on it (which it does). He thinks of his two sons, their faces, their laughs, and without much effort he falls back into the depth of horror and fear that leads him to tears. "I can't have children if I," he hiccups, "if I _die._ " If he dies. He almost wants to laugh at such an achievement.

Above him, Eddie stares with a poker face that couldn't be pierced even if he was stabbed right then. Earnestly scrutinizing Waylon with bloodshot eyes, a minute passes before his mask crumbles into a tight smile. He continues to hold the stare, and Waylon holds it back, willing Eddie with all he can give to believe his words. He doesn't notice the untying of rope until both of his wrists crash onto the wooden table.

It takes a moment for the realization to register, and once it does Waylon sits up and brings his knees to his stomach, immediately wanting to cover his privates despite the stark sting that comes from irritating his cuts. He can feel the blood pooling in his lap, but it doesn't matter right now, nor do the bruises painting his flesh red and purple. He's free, _free,_ in the most relative of terms but the knowledge almost short circuits him in joy. That is, until a strong arm wraps around his back and pulls him into an embrace.

Eddie nudges behind Waylon's ear with his nose, breathing the scent of his filth as if he was a patch of roses, and Waylon has to desperately fight his knee-jerk reaction of running away. That would only end with him being chased and, possibly, back on this table bleeding out and gagging on his own spit, tears, and blood. He shivers at the image, but stays still nonetheless.

Eddie whispers into his shoulder. "You are a little _minx,_ darling. What a girl have I fallen for." He holds Waylon tighter, closer, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. "I think I'm falling in love. Or plummeting." With the arm wrapped around Waylon's midsection, he holsters Waylon up and into his arms as much as he can, expecting Waylon to do the rest of the work and frowning when that doesn't happen. However, the frown soon shifts into a conniving smile. He dips a fingertip into a spot of blood on Waylon's thigh.

"I suppose we can wait to free you of your…vulgarities, but in the meantime, I do believe that we should free you of such," he trails a finger through another line of blood, "filth. It is only proper for a lady to be clean at all times. She is a treasure, a diamond that shines in the sunlight," he says, tone low and laced with something Waylon tries to ignore.

Swallowing thickly, Waylon slumps into the arms now holding him bridal style and rests his head against the chest adorned in a bloody vest. The ache in his body is like a slow drum, and all of the fear and tears have left him exhausted.

Before he knows it, he is drifting off into a restless sleep, holding Eddie's vest tightly as the man serenades him with thoughtless humming.


	7. Tip Of My Tongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tip Of My Tongue" - The Civil Wars

Water sloshes onto the floor gently. Graceful motions send the droplets flying on to the edge of grey, where they adhere to the ceramic until the weight overwhelms the force. It is a small drum in the large hall that echoes the harmony of pouring rain. Cracked windows refract light from outside into the hallway, basking them with just enough light to see without straining their eyes. Lightning strikes and thunder roars not long after.

' _She must be tired,'_ Eddie thinks absently while stroking the side of his darling's face. He hadn't expected her to sleep for so long, a few minutes or some, yes, but not for more than an hour. It was becoming worrisome, but Eddie refused to wake her from her slumber – she looks too much like a doll right now to ruin the image. She is exhausted from all the fighting, he concludes before running calloused fingers through her hair again, soaking blonde strands with more water that plasters them to her face.

Adjusting her weight to that she is leaning back instead of forward, Eddie uses his free arm to reach into the murky water and pull out a rag. Humming sweetly, he glides the drenched rag along her sharp hips and up her belly, neatly wiping at bruises and thin scars, red lines from where she has been cut before. He touches the rag up her chest (flat and petite, like a baby girl) before circling her shoulders and giving equal time to her arms. She shivers when he prods at a purple bruise, and for a second his heart skips at the thought of her waking up. But the moment passes without change, so he continues.

The cycle of washing and admiring repeats for an unknown amount of time, passing by with little thought compared to how rapt he is in her glory – her essence. She is a goddess and he is her feeble servant. She is a fighter, and he is her warrior. Eddie cups her naked knee. A fighter…the taste it leaves in his mouth is neither stale nor pleasant, not with how peaceful she looks. The only explanation for her foolish actions is fear, but his little bird must learn not to fear him. There is no reason to; however, he can forgive her this one transgression, since it was a simple mistake.

Dropping the rag back into the water, Eddie shuffles on his knees to lessen the space between them. The cold outside of the bathtub touches his side as he leans forward to press his forehead underneath her chin, nestling there, and then inhales her washed scent. It is earthly and raw, still tinged with musk from sweat, but the water has diluted the smell and replaced it with iron. Eddie buries his nose into the space where her collar and neck meet and nuzzles the skin. Warm. His heart flutters. She is so warm and sweet. Her scent is intoxicating, bringing him to a new high. Too far gone to notice her subtle shifts until a groan reaches his ears, and then there's a hand on his neck shoving him away.

"What are you-?! Let go!" She screams, digging her nails into his neck in a tight squeeze and squirming in the water violently, her eyes wide and feral as she tries to stand, but her knee buckles under the weight and she collapses with a shout. Her face contorts in pain, eyes narrowing at him and then at the water rippling around her.

Under her tightening grip Eddie cannot breathe. He gasps and growls, straining to maintain control over his actions before she ends up like the other whores. His goddess, taking advantage of her faithful servant like this; the dominance is unyielding, and the surge of her control urges him to fight for his own.

Eddie swings his arm out from the water and closes his wide hand around her neck, fully capturing hers while she can only halfway grip his. They simultaneously clench their hands and work for leverage, but their height difference gives Eddie the advantage. He stands and holds her down so she can't challenge him, curling a harsh fist into her hair and yanking her head back. She cries out at the pain and her grip on his neck falters, her arm too short to make up for the slack and soon Eddie is pushing hard enough to force her lower in the bathtub.

Lower, lower, he pushes and pulls until her head is barely above water, now crouching beside the tub to shove her deeper. His darling shakes her head vigorously and scratches at him, completely letting go of his neck in favor of clawing at his face and arms. Failed attempts to pry his fingers apart leave bright scratch marks on his knuckles.

"Every. Time. I try and I try to save you hopeless _sluts_ , you all betray me," he snarls. "You put up this fight, but know you will never win this game, darling." He forces her head under the water and holds her still, watching the air bubbles surface and pop. Her screams are soundless. Her chokes are silent. He twists his grip on her neck and she finally closes her mouth, but her eyes are wide and staring, watching, waiting, _and accepting._ Eddie frowns and is filled with the sudden urge to loosen his hold. So he does, and the bitch sits up immediately.

Gasps resound through the empty hall, bouncing off of the walls and tracing the ceiling. He angles his arm to the side, without letting go of her neck, to avoid the fit of coughing and spitting. Her whole body trembles and the vibrations are sent up his arm and down his spine. The rise and fall of her chest is exaggerated, and the short hair on her head is slicked straight. He further loosens his grip but she portrays no knowledge of noticing, not even when he lets go fully and drags his hands into his lap like a school child.

They sit still for a few minutes longer until her coughs are irregular and thin, and Eddie feels a smirk tug on the corners of his lips. "You must know how foolish you are, darling," he says, which earns him nothing more than a glare. "This constant resistance won't get you anywhere in life. It's just going to make things harder for you, especially now that we're together. Darling, how am I to fall for you if you always push me away?"

"Stop."

The haggard voice is rusty in the air, yet sounds even worse in Eddie's ears. Scratchy. He sees her suffocating again and is confused by the audacity hidden in that one, rustic word. "Yes?" he prompts.

His darling shifts in the water, muscles flexing every so often, shivering. "The…darlings. S-stop calling me darling like that."

"What makes you believe that you can st-"

"M-my name is Waylon. Not darling, but Waylon." She says firmly, lifting her gaze to hold Eddie's shocked stare. Her eyes are piercing and powerful, and Eddie can't help but see the goddess he saw before, her enchanting stare encompassing his heart in a strong warmth. He swallows thickly, and then a grin is splitting his lips.

"Waylon," he repeats, "not darling, but Waylon." His rolls the name around his tongue and tastes its sweetness until it melts, swallowing it down slowly to savor the taste only to do it over again. Waylon. Such a masculine name, but somehow it fits her strong will, her wickedness. Her ability to convince him to leave her vulgarity attached – for now – and make him fall for her again after shoving her beauty underwater. Waylon. Eddie's blood flows a little faster.

"You have such a beautiful name, darli… _Waylon,_ " he purrs and leans over the edge of the bathtub. Not unlike prey being stalked by its predator, Waylon shrinks under Eddie's earnest stare, her expression a cracked poker face that reveals her instability. Pursed, pink lips form a flat line and her cheeks flare a pale red. She nibbles at her bottom lip and averts her gaze when his stays. The water ripples around her thighs, dirty with filth and now cool.

Rising from a crouch, Eddie snags a long towel from a nearby table and extends an ungloved hand. "Come here, Waylon, I think you're clean enough."

* * *

Waylon. The name filters through his thoughts passively, coming to mind for a few seconds before exiting in similar fashion. Eddie idly rummages through a wooden chest filled with many different fabrics and half-made clothing.

Waylon. His darling has told him her name, at a rather peculiar moment, yes, but she had, which eases Eddie's mind only a few notches as threads of doubt and curiosity begin to intrude. Why did she choose that exact moment? The gift was so irrelevant and…random. He is grateful but not as much as cautious; there had been many other whores before to teach him to be wary of women. Minxes they are, they all are, even without intention. And this one, oh his darling is a witch down to her bone - a kind witch who needs to be void of her tendencies.

 _Waylon._ The name sparked from anger and violence, coaxed from a raspy throat dried from loss of breath. He had admired the way she choked, enjoyed the sight of bubbles bursting pockets of air stolen from her lungs. He wanted her dead – partially, he more so wanted her to suffer. He wanted her to suffer, yet she wanted him to know her name, take them to a more personal level. Eddie stops fumbling around the clothing, his hands caught between a cream colored blouse and the fold of what he assumes to be a pearly white dress.

"Darling," he says intentionally and waits for her acknowledgement. Without words, he knows that he has her attention when he hears the telltale, sharp intake of breath. "Can you stand up for me, please?"

Pushing aside the fabrics on top, Eddie grabs the white dress and pulls it out of the chest carefully. Its design is reminiscent of the masterpiece crafted on that one whore the day he met Trager, a memory that seems so distant but in actually was only a week or two ago. The slut had bled through the original, so Eddie had decided to comprise a better version of the ruined dress, and he is rather proud of the piece that came to. Now, holding it out to his darling for her to see, Eddie awaits her glee.

"So, what do you think of it?" he asks.

Rising from the stool she was perched on with only a towel covering her innocence, Waylon fingers the hem of the material and eyes the dress. She hesitates to speak "It's….pretty?"

Eddie's assumption shatters. "Why do you sound so unsure?" he gestures to Waylon with a wide swipe of his arm. "I think it'll fit perfectly, do you not?" He raises the question and steps forward, involuntarily making her shift away. Eddie stops short of standing directly in front of her, which seems to relax her just enough to stop her from looking like she's about to bolt out of the room. "I'm sure it will fit. I took your measurements already, so I know it will."

The bolting expression is back within seconds. "Whe-when did you do that?"

"While you were asleep." Eddie shrugs sheepishly. "I was going to need to know your sizes to find something for you to wear after your bath anyway, so I simply chose to do it while you were incapable of fighting me." He raises an eyebrow at her and notices how ghostly pale her face is, finding the shade sickening and misplaced. "If you'd like, I could find you another dress?" He offers and loops the dress around his arm, going to search through the chest again but a frail voice hinders his trip.

"N-no. It's fine. I c-can wear the dress," she stutters and Eddie has to reign in his passion to avoid strangling her in a tight embrace. Instead, he beams a bright smile at her and beckons her closer with open palms. "Come, come, you can't stay in that towel all day!"

She hesitates to approach, a sheep wary of stumbling across a wolf, but the moment she's within reach Eddie wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her flush against him, cradling her cheek with the back of his hand. She squirms against the hold, but the arm securing her is too strong to budge. Her 'fight' reaction is incipient, simmering to a boil, yet he remains pressed against her. Nudging her head to the side for easier access, Eddie nears until his lips ghost just behind her ear, and whispers, "Unless this is just a ploy for more, you little _minx._ "

The shiver that rakes her body runs through his, eliciting a quiet, deep-throated hum from him and tingling nerves in his chest and fingers. The pale that painted her face and shoulders is now a flushed pink, and she warms Eddie wherever they connect. Waylon shuffles against him – away from him – and Eddie lets her. He bites the hollow of his cheek. _After the ceremony._ The reminder eases his mind.

Although, before she can get too far Eddie manages to shuffle the bundle of fabric into her arms. Waylon eyes it warily, to Eddie's dismay, but his disappointment quickly changes to excitement when she saunters to the opposite side of the workroom and mutters for him to turn around and not look. The request is lost on him, since he did just bathe her, but Eddie obliges without verbal or physical rebuttal.

The sound of the towel hitting the floor and fabric crinkling is music to his ears. It feels different with her, completely and utterly opposite to the noises the whores now hanging in his gym had made. They were never this quiet and fragile, and their fighting spirits were enough to assure Eddie that he wanted to kill them. They were toying with his heart, his soul, and would've laughed at his pain if they ever had the chance - if they ever escaped, that is. But Waylon is different, special.

 _Familiar._ He tries to surface the memory of their first meeting but is met with a harsh wall of vague colors and blurred lines. Images are obscured by fragments of that cursed machine, forming a headache before he can think too hard. So he stops, and breathes, and rubs his hands together impatiently for Waylon to call his attention.

After about a minute of silence, Eddie has convinced himself that she must be fully dressed by now, and turns on his heel to face his darling.

White. The serenity of the piece flows from her shoulders to below her knees, hugging her waist and hips in a loose embrace that emphasizes her shape in the slightest of ways while leaving much room for the imagination. It portrays the image of young woman new to the world, yet in her face and build is experience. Lean muscles accentuate the overall product, but Eddie will have to award the finishing touch to the deeper pink brushing her cheeks. She looks at him with wide, brown, doe eyes and grabs her right wrist, etching line after line on her skin with her fingertip. The sight makes the air in Eddie's throat catch.

"Waylon," he breathes, a charming smile lighting his eyes and movements, morphing them into gracefulness linked to the joy in his heart. This time when he approaches her, she doesn't move back, and it takes it as a small relief to the massive amount of work that needs to be done. But for now all he can focus on is her present appearance and love.

He stops to cradle her waist when he's right on the edge of her personal space. "I am a lucky man, Waylon. To have you here, in my world, in my arms. You are so beautiful," he trails a finger down to her hand and opens his palm for her to take. Waylon bites her lower lip hesitantly, as if contemplating the concept, but complies before Eddie truly regards the moment. "I am blessed to have found you before another could spoil your innocence, and once your shame has been discarded I will teach you how to be a proper woman. But until then, my dear, I believe that you deserve a treat."

He quickly leans forward before his darling could protest and nuzzles his nose over hers playfully, enjoying the question that fills her instead of disgust or tension. When he pulls away, her cheeks have reached an impossible red and her lips have parted, obviously confused by the gesture but not enough so to ask, apparently. Well, silence is the better side of a woman, so Eddie accepts the silent quizzical and let go of her limp hand.

"I'll be right back, darling," he tells her before walking out of the workroom with the keys twirling around his finger, humming an older song as he locks the door from the outside.

* * *

"A token for our future," Eddie chimes from the doorway. He is hoisting a medium-sized, rectangular box over one shoulder, and donning new clothes and an excited glint in his eye. Kicking the door closed behind him, Eddie nods for Waylon to follow him to the sewing table and sets down the box at the center of the table.

He smiles when he feels a presence next to him. "It's yours, don't expect me to open it," he says lightly and taps the top of the box.

Waylon glances at him in what Eddie assumes as confirmation, and then carefully plucks the top of the box off and lays it on the table. He doesn't miss the highlight in her eyes when she sees what's inside. Bright, red strawberries rest in rows inside the box, their scent rising from the cardboard and fanning over the two. They point diagonally in a zigzag pattern; something Eddie thought would make for a better aesthetic appeal than rows and columns. But it is what's between them that truly capture the elegance of the gift.

Coiled around the center most strawberries is a gold link; it is thin but prominent, and when Waylon spots it she looks at Eddie pointedly. Chuckling, he nods and tells her, "Go ahead. The necklace isn't going to pick itself up, darling." The roll of the name is alluring, enchanting, and purposeful. He inches closer to her as she picks the piece of jewelry up and eyes it, gently holding it between fingertips as if it will break upon any sort of force.

"Did you make this?" She asks.

"Yes," he replies smoothly.

"For me?"

"Who else, Waylon my love."

That trips Waylon's words, and Eddie is amused by how she struggles to voice her thoughts. Her skin is paling, but he chalks it up to her being nervous and beyond flattered. Happy. What he would give to do more for – to – her with her pausing like this. He looks over her frail form, gaze lingering longer than necessary at her hips and lips, but reminds himself to wait for after the ceremony. After the ceremony, and then…

"Th-thank you," is what stumbles out as barely a whisper, cracked and rolling off a tangled tongue. Waylon runs a finger over the gold links and inhales deeply, trying to calm her breath. She blinks hard, exhales, and then her beautiful eyes are on Eddie, a small, careful smile on her lips. "Thank you, Eddie."

A name. His heart skips in his chest, he can't breathe, and then he's pressing a smaller, warmer body against his. The scent of the earth clouds his senses and all of a sudden all he wants to do is breathe. And touch. And hold her still until the end of the world. She does not push him away nor return the embrace, but the acceptance is enough to quell Eddie's burning _want_ for now. He takes what she gives, and then presses his lips to her forehead in a light kiss just for a bit more.

"You're welcome, Waylon," he whispers against her flushed skin.

*******************************************************************************************************************************

♥ Adorable [chibi Waylon and Eddie](http://daliakoen.tumblr.com/post/143768807925/i-really-tried-to-do-better-drawing-but-this) by Daliakoen ♥


	8. We Were Born Sick

He twirls the thread around his smallest finger loosely, letting the velvet string coil and then fall to bundle at the base of his pinky only to repeat the process. A low rumble sounds through the ceiling, signifying the use of some machine – air conditioning, heating, something of the sorts that requires ventilation – in another, close part of the building. He glances through the door to make sure that no lights from electronics are on nearby, and when he spots no sight of blue he resigns to twirling the string again.

The repetition is idle, done with very little to no regard or thought, droning on as the machine hums and silence stretches. Eddie struggles not to yawn. It is getting late, and now the only light source in the workroom comes from waned candles. They flicker in the background patiently, yet the tranquility in the air is shifting into something more sinister - hollower. He blinks slowly, vision blurring around the edges, but he isn't tired. No, unlike the candles he cannot stand to the test of patience. Eddie taps his foot on the floor and loops the thread around his thumb, and then his index finger, and then his ring. He twists the knot and pulls taunt until the thread is tangled between his fingers.

Eddie plucks the centermost line of thread. "Waylon, how much longer will you have me wait?"

There's a creak in the floorboards, but no direct answer. He coils the string again, tighter this time, yanking the other lines of thread to pull this one flush against his skin. Redness begins to pour past the white of his finger and build, and he watches the color change until all of his flesh under the string is a pale white while the skin above is bright pink. When he finally drops the thread, small pins are pulsing through his finger.

Eddie clears his throat. "Waylon?" he asks again but louder. Another creak in the wood alerts him of his darling's presence, but she doesn't speak.

Now frowning, Eddie unties the small knots he made in the long string and places it on the desk beside him before turning to face the rest of the room. Golden light saves it from the shadows, giving it a rich glow that fools the mind into serenity. Stray, cut pieces of fabric lie unceremoniously on the table, and the strawberry box from earlier remains open with a few strawberries eaten.

He can hear her shift from behind the desk.

"Darling, what are you doing?" Eddie asks, now coming to lean over the desk and peer behind it. It's too dark for him to make out details, but the figure of Waylon hiding behind the desk is as solid as he imagined. His expression softens upon seeing her, but he doesn't try to mask his disappointment from his darling not answering when he called. "Do you need any help?"

"No," she says quickly, too hasty, and the speed of it leaves his mouth tasting displeasure. He purses his lips.

"But dear, you clearly don't know what you're doing."

"And you do?" she snaps.

Swallowing down his knee-jerk reaction to shove the desk down on her, and possibly crush a bone or two, Eddie clenches his jaw and waits for his fingers to relax from fists before slowly walking around the desk, snagging a burning candle along the way. Placing the candle down on the floor a foot or two away from them, Eddie kneels in front of Waylon, one hand on his knee while the other rests on the ground.

"As a matter of fact," he pokes her shoulder to get her attention, to which Waylon shrinks further into herself. "I do, darling. It…displeases me, but I suppose everything was just leading up to you." Eddie quirks his eyebrows and smiles, trying to dazzle her into acceptance, but Waylon's gaze is averted from him.

Why?

Waylon jerks against his hand when he grabs her inner thigh, fingers brushing around her warm skin, searching for something that isn't there. She kicks out but the attempt is futile with Eddie now snatching her right leg and dragging her closer, out of the dark and into the yellow glow. It's a fight to hold her still, Waylon wiggling the entire way as he drags her further out of her corner.

"Excuse my rashness, darling, but I don't see why-" he slaps her hand away an instant before the slap hits, "you're hiding from me." Another kick is sent his way and Eddie steps on her leg, grinding his heel right below her bruised knee. She gasps sharply and trembles, a low whimper escaping her lips but he doesn't move off until she is glaring up at him; cheeks red, tears glistening in her eyes, the image warms him enough for him to let off.

Leveling his stare from above her, Eddie watches as her hands – so small and petite – curl into fists and her cheeks burn a deep crimson. It's a pleasant contrast to her white dress, which is hitched mid-thigh and folded between her legs. Embarrassment radiates off of her, but before Eddie can further his questioning, he spots something peaking from inside her fist: it is a deep purple and sewn, and Eddie has to bite his inner cheek to keep from laughing at her chagrin. Waylon takes the brief moment to widen the distance between them.

"Come here, Waylon," he says sweetly. She doesn't take kindly to his amusement, it's obvious by the way she glares underneath layers of nervousness, but what is he to do when she is being so adorable? Eddie's smile widens, and soon Waylon is crawling over to him reluctantly, refusing to make eye contact with him.

Once she's close enough, Eddie runs his index finger along the side of her fist, and then pulls the byzantium colored cloth from her grasp.

"Were you having difficulty with this?"

Waylon's cheeks light aflame. She bites her bottom lip and completely turns her head from him, frowning, positively despising how her face is becoming red. And he just watches. Smirking. Eddie pinches the smooth cotton between his fingers, finding the piece soft and perfect for his darling. He made it for her, of course, after remembering how improper it was for her not to wear undergarments.

And she had accepted the gift like a treasure, staring at it as her cheeks paled (that sickening white, it was disgusting but perhaps it came from appreciation?) and her knees began to buckle. She was enamored. Eddie had sent to her to the opposite side of the room to change since she was too shy to undress before him – like a proper lady – and that had led them to where they are now.

Here, with Waylon blushing profusely and Eddie holding her panties like an entertained handler. Maybe she needed a little more training?

"I would have thought that you'd know how to put on panties by now, darling," he begins, snaking a warm hand up her shin and behind her knee. Waylon fidgets under his hold. "But my inference is mistaken. You were raised by wolves then… yet turned out to be a spectacular woman, I can see it. With a little more, ah, discipline, you'll be the best mother around," he leans in close and drags the fabric up and around her foot, "the best in the world.

"But that will come after the ceremony, of course."

His words are emphasized by a warm, large hand on Waylon's privates, cupping them with feather-like touches. Eddie doesn't look at his hand as he leads the panties around Waylon's thighs and hips while simultaneously folding her innocence. She, however, stares at his actions with her lips slightly apart, muscles taunt, and fingers digging into her dress. Waylon watches Eddie intently, a boost to the man's ego but at the same time he feels distraught, and _vulgar._

The hand holding Waylon's vulgarity feels numb, absently repeating robotic motions to finish the job quickly and without incident. Although he loves her silky skin and innocence, Eddie hates her wickedness; this attachment that doesn't belong. Finally placing her firmly in the underwear, Eddie quickly removes his hand and wipes it on his pants, internally growling his discontent. However, it all washes away when he meets Waylon's beautiful gaze.

His insides practically flutter. "Darling," he breathes, and then pulls her into a gentle embrace. He wraps his arms around her and she pats his shoulder, a simple gesture that has Eddie's heart reeling in joy. Waylon, his darling, so wonderful and everything he wanted. Oh, she just needs a little more attention and then she'll be perfect – absolutely stellar.

So caught up in his thoughts, Eddie pulls back, but only far enough to look her directly in the eye. She looks so inviting, and when she wets her lips it calls his attention there. All he has to do is lean a little bit closer…

A grumble in the air startles them both, halting Eddie's actions before he could even make them. Waylon's blush comes back to push her paleness away, and she glances down at her stomach. To Eddie's surprise, she is the one to chuckle softly. "I guess I'm hungry," she notes, more so to herself, tone a melting pot of despair, amusement, and other vague emotions.

He blinks, and then flashes her a charming smile. "We'll just have to fix that, won't we?"

* * *

The hallway is dark, a familiarity that has become natural, but the eeriness of it is something that Eddie hasn't felt in a while. For a moment his thoughts flash back to his dear friend, and Eddie wonders how the old fool is handling everything. He hasn't felt the absence of the man before, his focus being primarily on Waylon, but now, as the pair trudge the empty, creaking halls of Mount Massive Asylum, Eddie feels a thread of dread for not seeing Trager.

Wasn't he hunting down a kid the last time they talked? Their conversation had been so rushed before he left; he clearly remembers the doctor almost literally bouncing off of the walls when the kid came close, his excitement bubbling beyond measure. It was heart-warming to see him so happy, so vividly simmering with anticipation, that in the moments before he departed Eddie had actually wanted to stay.

He wanted to meet the kid, see exactly who Trager was targeting and understand what was so substantial about him. _Shit priest's kid,_ he hears in his head, and the thought makes him laugh aloud.

Waylon raises a questioning look at him, but Eddie dismisses her curiosity with the wave of his hand. He leads her through a door and around a corner to a large room with three exits, one being a decontamination chamber. He starts towards it, but Waylon stops as soon as her eyes land on the door.

Eddie turns his back to the door in order to face her. "It's just right through here, Waylon, I promise. I know the walk has been long but it won't take much longer before I can feed you."

He waits for her to come to her senses and move, but after a few seconds of inactivity Eddie begins to feel his anger bubble. She shifts her weight and angles her body away, like a rabbit ready to dash with the next alarm. The movement is subtle, but Eddie catches her shaking her head.

"Eddie…"

"Why must we always play this game, darling?" he speaks through his teeth, eyes narrowed, and takes a step forward. He tries to relax his body to at least appear less aggravated, but his darling was full of too many childish games. "If you were so afraid then why did you follow me all the way here? You could have run long before, if that was what you were planning. I was simply offering to satisfy your need, since I don't eat as much anymore."

Sure, he could have fed her whatever was in the Block or forced her to eat the rest of those strawberries, but, foolishly, he thought that she would have preferred more of a variety – something special to show her how much he valued her health. Eddie didn't take from his reserve room often, if at all. So for her to deny him? He grits his teeth and takes another step forward.

Waylon shuffles back, and something akin to the sound of rushing gas fills the room, but his sole focus is on the whore before him.

"Or maybe you were planning on leaving me once I showed you where my supplies were? Is that it? Were you just using me for knowledge and ended up feeling _guilty_ about it?" his hands ball into fists. "Darling! I need an answer."

"E-Eddie, it's not that-"

"Then why are you _running_ from me?"

A piercing _whoosh_ sweeps through the room followed by the whirl of something so familiar, so mechanical that it knocks Eddie into a nano-second of déjà vu before the spell ends and a loud _"Feed Me!"_ slices through the air. The explosion of sound jolts his body, and Eddie turns to see what the cause is, but is met with a wall of gas and a buzz saw swinging towards his face.

He dodges it at the last second, but a strong foot rams into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and sending him stumbling backwards, gasping for air. _"Feed Me!"_ The voice screams in time with the hum of the saw as the blade is brought down inches away from Eddie's scalp. He drops to the ground and rolls to his right, narrowly dodging the man's next attack but fatally falling into a trap. A wall. His back presses against a wall and the man towers above him.

Naked, covered in blood. The screech of the buzz saw is deafening. Eddie scrambles on the floor for traction but his feet keep slipping, fingernails scratching the floorboards as the man raises the saw above his head, whirring, muffling the noise of a voice splitting the air.

A voice calling his name.

* * *

He is frozen in fear. Fear, manifesting from the very pit of his soul and he can't do anything to stop it, can't do anything to keep the terror in his reigns. Maybe the effect is synergistic? Maybe it's the Engine? But for whatever reason, as he stares at the gas chamber and feels his stomach lurch with nausea, Waylon's body refuses to move and his throat constricts. "E-Eddie, it's not-," he hears himself say but doesn't immediately recognize the voice. It is hoarse and cracked, deeply torn in a way that echoes the insanity of the asylum. Waylon feels broken, shattered beyond repair as his mind throws images of naked men and guts and blood and _chewing_ in his face.

He doesn't even notice the foul colored gas fill the chamber, doesn't even notice the maniac burst through the doors until Eddie is loosely evading the man's assault. His groom drops to the floor and rolls away, but then his back hits the wall and Waylon's world suddenly falls to pieces – pieces that somehow manage to link together and scream one, solitary message.

_"EDDIE!"_

Fear, fear is gripping him fast and furiously, intertwining with adrenaline to create some sort of drug that reacts violently in his blood. He's running now, but not to his freedom. Oh, how his demise looks so much sweeter.

Fear, fear is gripping him fast and furiously as he rams his body into Frank Manera's and feels the man crash below him. The saw is still buzzing loudly but he can't place where, too many sensory alerts rattling his mind with too little space to properly process them. There is a lump under his stomach, raising his hips off the ground but he assumes that it's the cannibal's struggling body, which fights against him, bucking back but Waylon's body is resilient. Unyielding. He presses down and screams along with the man, terror scratching at his throat in time with Manera's hollers. He doesn't see Eddie, can't hear Eddie, and that realization scares him beyond comprehension.

It is confusing and disgusting and Waylon wants the crawl into a corner and vomit his soul out. Searing tears streak down his cheeks, and he holds on tighter to the man who attacked Eddie. The man who chased him endlessly and made his life a darker nightmare than it already was. He could deal with Eddie's shit, but this..this… A deep sob rips through Waylon and his body violently shakes.

"Darling!" he hears Eddie shout, but the voice is so distant that is sounds like a dream, muffled by that sadistic buzz of a still turning blade. Frank is no longer struggling below him, but Waylon shoves his body anyway. A wet slush and slice sounds from the body, but in the darkness behind his eyelids he can't see anything.

"Darling!" the voice calls again, closer, and his heart jumps up to his throat. He feels so sick. Waylon wants to open his eyes and see who is mimicking Eddie, but something wet and thick is keeping his eyes shut. He raises a hand to wipe off the blood, but the moment he does a strong hand grabs his elbow and yanks him up. Waylon cries out, feeling a rusted blade slice open his palm, but then the strong hand turns into an arm, and then a body.

Waylon immediately rests his head against the chest he's being pressed to, and the ragged stitching that pokes into his cheek is such a relief that Waylon finds himself crying again.

"Waylon," Eddie says into his ear, and somehow the voice is comforting. "I'm going to get you out of here, and then I'll finish him. Darling," Waylon feels a pair of lips kiss his forehead reassuringly, "he won't wake up. I promise you, Waylon. I will murder him with my own hands for daring to hurt you."

*******************************************************************************************************************************

♥ Beautiful [One Who Loves fanart by PhoenixTakaramono](http://phoenixtakaramono.tumblr.com/post/143679367005/my-fanart-for-onemorewander-whod-written-one-who) ♥


	9. It's Just A Shot Away

Twin light bulbs dangle loosely from the ceiling. Their light is dim, weak, just enough to illuminate bits and pieces of the walls and floor without giving enough to thoroughly see in. Whispers of wind and rain filter into the hallway as the hum of a dying ventilation system sets as background noise. It is quiet, oh so quiet, except for the single scrape of a _stitch._

_Stitch._

_Stitch._

Crimson trails from the wound in branches, lining a puddle of blood at the waist. The hand works quickly, wrist snapping to push the needle through taunt skin and then loop it out. Piercing and sharp, the sewing elicits soft groans and mewls of pain. Heat radiates from the spot fiercely.

_Stitch._

The needle is slippery now; fingers around the metal struggle to grip it, pinching at ends while a heavy sigh leaves dry lips. A growl soon follows. The needle is plunged again but this time it hits a nerve that spikes up a heaving chest, shifting the growl to a shout and eyes clench in fury. Blood spurts from the wound and aggravates the rest of the cut. _Stitch._ Abs are relaxed to aid in threading the needle through. _Stitch._ The work is done in haste with trembling fingers that struggle to hold long enough to adjust their grip on the needle. A slice that stretches from hip to hip. The agony is never ending. The blood coats so thickly.

_Stitch._

_Stitch._

_Stitch._

* * *

"Darling, I need you to look away now."

Waylon doesn't hesitate to do so.

He covers his ears in a childish attempt to block out the whir of the buzz saw, gaze cast away to stare blankly at the floor's broken pattern. The monster, whom he knows to now refer to as Frank Manera, in his haste had landed stomach first on the saw while it was still going, allowing the blade to slice at him freely. It didn't help that Waylon was pinning him down, but the realization does not make him as sick as it should have.

As it _would_ have, a mere week or two ago. He blinks as a shiver rips through his body and moves his gaze to the door across from him. He cannot see past the blood splattered on the door's small window, but he can hear the muffled screams and laughter. Waylon presses his palms harder against his ears and curls into a ball, dragging his knees underneath his chin and pressing his elbows between his thighs.

He was so scared. Standing before a simmering Eddie had frozen him in fear long before Frank appeared from gassy shadows. The fear gripped him, drew its fingers into his chest and held him by the lungs. Waylon couldn't breathe. He couldn't blink. He couldn't scream out a warning or drag his legs from under him – he couldn't _do_ anything but watch as the fighting began. But that wasn't the worst part. No – Waylon inhales sharply – that wasn't the worst part and his decisions during the fight may as well have led him on a course of destruction.

Because he didn't flee. When his body had finally come back to him, when he finally had control over his voice and thoughts and actions, he didn't flee. He didn't run or hide or die. Instead, he screamed for Eddie.

 _Eddie._ The thought would be comical if it wasn't so terrifying.

As he processed the buzz saw and bloodlust in Frank's eyes, Waylon hadn't taken the chance to run. He could have done it. They were distracted; they weren't thinking about him. On the off chance, Eddie was trying to protect him from the monster and give him time to run. But what had Waylon done? He stayed. He cried for Eddie and took it upon himself to _save_ the man. Why? Did he really think of Eddie as his groom – bile catches in his throat and Waylon has to immediately dismiss the thought.

So what was the reason? Why did he not only stay, but try to protect Eddie Gluskin? Had he, somehow, developed a connection with him? A semblance of pity or want or reliance?

"-a man in love now, darling. I cannot entertain such desires anymore; it would be impetuous of me." Waylon hears Eddie say through the fog of his thoughts, and is surprised by how clear the man sounds despite the buzzing and muffle of his hands over his ears. Lifting his hands, Waylon crawls closer to the door and leans his ear against its wood.

The saw's whir stops, and he can make out the familiar sound of Eddie's boots sloshing through a stream of fluid. "But you did this to yourself. There is no other to blame except you. You overstepped a fine line when you tried to hurt my dear, beautiful Waylon." The footsteps sound farther from the door, and a rattle of chains and grunts lets Waylon know that Eddie is near Frank. "You can take my food and clothing, all of my material possessions… but the moment you try to claim my Waylon… that is when you pay."

The slurp of blades digging into tissue and blood is loud and sickening in the room, emphasizing the immediate splash of blood spilling on the floor and splattering everywhere else. Frank hollers in pain and the chains rattle loudly, dancing in time with drowning gasps and dying snarls but the slosh of the blades refuse to stop.

" _Die_ already, you swinish whore."

Waylon shuffles away from the door on legs of jello, his heart soaring and lungs jumping in painful hiccups. Behind him, Eddie urges his victim to death and brings the saw down upon him in quick strokes, filling the rooms with inhumane cries. It's too much, too loud, and no matter how far he moves from the chamber of blood and chains Waylon can't lessen the cacophony of screams. It resounds and reverbs off the walls – the volume is phenomenal. The screaming, tantalizing and raw.

And then, it suddenly stops.

Not a crescendo of whirring, not a single signal of closing. All of the sound in the world spontaneously ends, leaving Waylon hard pressed against the back wall and staring wide-eyed at the wiggling door handle. Involuntarily he holds his breath, lungs constricted harshly to keep the air from escaping. Time ticks by slowly and the shuffle of boots do not bring with it comfort. In pregnant silence, he watches as the door slowly creaks to an open, and a pair of bloodied gloves are tossed inside.

"Waylon? Where are you?" Eddie asks gently in a tone that parallels a zoologist coaxing a wild bear. He steps into the room cautiously and slowly looks around. "Frank Manera is-"

"Don't s-say it," comes a voice that barely resembles Waylon's. Crawling out from his hiding spot, Waylon moves to stand before Eddie and breathes out shakily. His mouth tastes raw and dry, and he can't help from note the splatter patterns painting Eddies face and clothing. The man's eyes widen and a clear wash of relief waves over him, but Waylon cowers when he tries to come any closer. Eddie frowns, confused, and twitches a finger to beckon Waylon.

It takes a moment of hesitation, a moment to work the solid anxiety out of his system as much as possible, before Waylon feels confident (or stupid) enough to oblige the request. He flinches when a warm hand soaked in red grasps his and pulls him closer; too close, the pungent scent of metallic death is vile this close. He gags but covers the reflex with a cough.

Eddie leads Waylon to the opposite side of the dimly lit room, a place that Waylon hasn't had the time to venture into yet. It is connected to the workroom by a tiny stretch of hallway – if it can be called that – and is filled with more blankets than fabrics, although naked mannequins rot at the entrance of the room. A window lets in light from above, and what is not covered by outside is illuminated by well-placed candles. Despite all of this, Waylon has to strain his sight to clearly make out what the objects are exactly to keep from stepping on them. When Eddie finally settles on a spot, it is at the center of a makeshift bed of two mattresses and a mountain of sheets.

"Sit here for a bit, my love. I must depart but only for a second," Eddie says and pushes down on Waylon's shoulder to urge him down. Waylon doesn't argue and sits, but watches closely as Eddie gives him a passive smile before ambling down the hall they just passed through.

Once the man is out of sight, he acts quickly.

Grabbing the nearest candle from the floor, Waylon scrambles from the bed and then maneuvers around a dresser to a neatly organized table. Two small stacks of files lie on it with a few document ends sticking out of them. He flicks back one of the brown covers and runs a finger along the edge of sketch paper, scanning over the many drawings of men in long and short wedding gowns. They are all missing penises.

Moving on, Waylon runs his palm across the table and grabs anything that pokes into his skin: a pencil, a pen, a white pendant that holds a blank picture. It was all garbage. Waylon spins on his heel and heads back towards the workroom on quiet feet, bracing himself against the wall and peering around to make sure the groom wasn't nearby. If he's caught, Eddie would surely kill him. If he's caught, Eddie would do to him what he did to Manera. If he's caught-

A rattle of keys call Waylon's attention sharply. He almost breaks his neck from how fast he turns to the sound, snapping in its direction. Humming. The keys dangle to the tune of humming and heavy, booted footsteps, and as the being passes above Waylon he can hear the twirl of an enamored man.

_Shit._

He doesn't have time to process the distance or any noise that he's making as he dashes back down the stretch of hallway and crashes on the mattress, yanking at the sheets to at least make it seem like he took advantage of the opportunity. His breathing is haggard, heart is racing, and his fingers tremble in anticipation. The keys ring louder.

A can of _something_ is thrown at his face and Waylon catches the item a split second before it could break his nose.

"You have outstanding reflexes, darling," Eddie praises and claps, setting something down on the table, before kneeling on the bed beside Waylon, who scoots about a foot over to accommodate their distance. Eddie doesn't seem to mind, but Waylon isn't exactly gauging out his facial expression. "You haven't had the chance to eat yet, so I grabbed a can of peaches for you. I know that it isn't anything spectacular, but I doubt you would approve of going back to my reserve. Perhaps another time, hm?"

Waylon glances at him and nods before placing his attention on the can rotating in his hands. Peaches; his stomach growls in need. He had forgotten about his hunger, but who could blame him with a man trying to satisfy his hunger with _him?_ Cannibalism sure had a way of reducing appetite. But now with food in his hands, Waylon couldn't open the lid fast enough.

He pries at the lid with his fingers aggressively, digging his nails into the aluminum and scratching at the surface but to no avail. Eddie chuckles to the sideline, causing Waylon's cheeks to burn, and he shoots the variant a glare of desperation and disapproval.

"Do you need some help?"

"No."

"Well," Eddie hums, continuing to watch.

A whiff of sour air meddles into his breath and Waylon scrunches his nose to keep the odor out. It is sweet, not as fresh as the blood still clinging onto Eddie's clothes, but no longer his face and hands, and Waylon finds that there is a clear distinction between the new smell and Eddie's. He stops fumbling with the can and searches the area, finding nothing.

It is only when he peers down at himself that he spots the display of crimson tainting his white dress. The splatter is hallucinogenic, trippy, rays of red mingling between white. The smell is foul. Waylon slaps at the fabric in a fit of hysteria – _blood._ Manera's blood is on his _dress_ and he didn't even notice. How had he not noticed? Drawing in breath, Waylon wiggles under the dress and yanks an arm inside, tugging at the cloth and squirming until both of his arms are inside. He goes to push the dress over his head but Eddie is grabbing him and shoving it back on.

"Darling!" he shouts but Waylon is too far gone. He kicks out and lands a blow on Eddie's side. The man keels over from impact, giving Waylon enough room to scramble farther up the bed. He grips the hem of the dress fiercely and rips it off, prying it over his shoulders and head and throwing it anywhere away from him. Cold bites at his skin viscously, but it doesn't matter.

Crawling. His skin feels like its crawling with millions of bugs and he can't get the stench _off._

Waylon jerks away from the fingers touching his shoulder and hisses as if the touch burned. He's exposed now; the only thing covering him is over his privates. He accidentally knocks over a candle while scooting back and palms the fire to kill it before it could burn the mattress, and immediately regrets the decision with how strongly the flame burns his skin.

Once the pain dies to a dull ache, Waylon raises his glare to the man before him, but finds that he is no longer there. "Ed-?" he starts but doesn't finish, the low thud of boots hitting the floor alerts Waylon of Eddie's whereabouts. Silently, he stares as Eddie drops his boots on the floor and cracks his knuckles and neck. He looks…wary. Shoulders bent and heavy, sighs leaving his lips. The scene is so unlike the image that Waylon has subconsciously built for him, and the contrast brings about a surge of disbelief and confusion. This perplexing feeling remains in place even as Eddie, still quiet, lowers onto the bed again and crawls higher until he's at the very top. A wall of blankets surrounds him like pillows, and Waylon notices the glint of metal in his hands. Without a word, Eddie withdraws a knife from his hip and cuts off the can's lid.

"Here," he says, holding out the can, and this time Waylon doesn't hesitate to take it. The metal matches the coolness in the room, and subconsciously Waylon inches closer to the larger source of heat.

Eddie, apparently, notices his move but nevertheless ignores it. To Waylon's anxiety, Eddie's expression is a borderline from contemplative and accusatory, a combination worth the dread beginning to form in his belly. He scoops out a sliced peach with his finger, and Eddie clears his throat.

"Was it the blood?" he asks. Waylon freezes, not exactly sure what is being asked. Eddie waits a few seconds before clarifying. "Were you afraid of the blood, darling? You seemed to not have noticed it until just now, and when you did you were scared." Eddie sits up and rests his hands in his lap. "Darling, you need to put the dress back on."

"No," he chokes out, voice a little too broken for his liking, so he decides to scoop out another peach and fill his mouth with that in place of words, eyes averted from Eddie.

"You're cold, and the…trauma…from what has happened will only intensify it. You need to wear something."

He hates the way he sounds; concerned, pleading almost, Eddie's tone is like a knife being twisted in his gut. He tries to stuff his cheeks with more peaches for an excuse not to answer, but the slower he chews and the longer Eddie's _stares_ surround him, the harder it is for him to swallow down the mess he created in his mouth. He tries to swallow and regrets doing so with how the sensation seems to ride down his back. He arches slightly and is smacked with a fresh whoosh of cold air.

Noticing this, Eddie pats the spot beside him and says, "Here." Waylon refuses at first, but when a cool hand presses against the middle of his back he shakes violently and succumbs to the command.

It is warmer here by a considerable margin, but he doesn't approve of this. Eddie's arm is wrapped around his back and Waylon's skin pricks where Eddie's vest scratches him. They breathe in unison as Waylon finishes eating the peaches and drinking the juice. It is sweet and alluring, and Waylon fully appreciates its distractive aroma.

Sometime between his eating and appreciation, Waylon finds that a blanket has been laid over him and Eddie snuggled – rather warmly – at his side. The man's chin is resting against his temple, and Waylon is sure that he is basking in his scent. Romantic. Sensual. It reminds him of his many nights with Lisa and the memory aches his heart. Eddie mumbles something that draws him from his thoughts, but it was too low for him to catch.

"Eddie?"

"Thank you, Waylon," he sighs into Waylon's ear. "What you did back there was courageous. Darling, I'm so proud of you. I'm so grateful to have found you."

Butterflies do not belong here. Waylon feels his cheeks flush and his breath hitch. He saved Eddie… He didn't flee. The path to his destruction widens and Waylon feels that it will become an easy ride if he doesn't turn around now. Turn around now and leave the man. He could run. But he's so cold and Eddie…Eddie is _warm_ and _welcoming._ Waylon bites his lower lip and brings the can to his nose.

"Waylon?" Eddie whispers, but he doesn't respond.

Time is a relative matter, and soon he cannot tell how much of it has passed before Eddie's breathing has evened. A minute? Five or ten? It is a complete loss on him yet the concept is seldom important. Waylon shifts away to test out the water, and when Eddie remains stagnant he tries his hand at completely pulling himself out from the grasp. For one terrifying moment, Eddie grumbles and reaches out into empty space, but Waylon has enough sense to shove a mound of blanket in the space to replace him. Eddie frowns and squeezes the sheets, but soon his expression settles and he huffs into the pile.

Good.

Briefly looking back at Eddie to make sure that he is in the clear, Waylon crawls out from the bed and silently rises to his feet. The cold that envelops him is a significant deterrent, but his mind is still enough to keep him from being dissuaded.

The keys, Eddie had entered with them and he put them… He put them… Waylon snatches them from the table tightly to keep them from rattling. There are three, but if he moves fast enough he may be able to find the right one before Eddie wakes up. Waylon shakes his head. He _has_ to do this before Eddie wakes up.

In the dark, he rushes across the small hall to the workroom. The candles are all blown out, but he does not need light in order to find the stray pieces of clothing Eddie seemed happy to have lying about. After a short search, he comes across a pair of horribly designed pants that hang off his hips, probably leftovers from a previous victim, and a half completed vest. He clings onto the warmth that they bring, and it would be a lie to say that he wasn't relieved to finally wear something other than dress. It is freeing, a point to the masculinity that has been stripped away from him and finally, Waylon can breathe. Breathe, and bask in the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

But, in the midst of him leaving the workroom, his fingers absently travel to the solid piece of cold dangling from his neck.

With white knuckles, he holds the gold chain necklace. He holds it defiantly as he runs through the halls of the Vocational Block, retracing his steps in blurred memory. He holds it as growls and snarls fill his ears; holds it as warmth envelops him with kind words and sincerity. He doesn't stop holding the chain until he comes before the door to his freedom. His hands tremble violently as he stumbles to find the correct key, shoving them into the keyhole and twisting with coiling urgency. He glances behind to scan the hallway and almost breaks down when he hears the telltale click of the key and feels the door give.

Why did he save Eddie? The answer eludes him completely. It lies somewhere between subconscious reaction and a reason that he is too afraid to seek out. It was an impulsive, immediate consequence of a grotesque doubt that had spurred in him while he wasn't paying attention. But as he pushes past the door to the male ward and runs with every fiber in his being propelling him forward, Waylon no longer feels the need to answer that question.

He doesn't feel the need to hold on to the symbol of his bondage any longer, either.

So he breaks it.


	10. Set The World On Fire

How?

Eddie stares down at the bundle of sheets in his hands, squeezing them, trying to piece together when the warmth in his arms had disappeared into a few balled up fabrics. The chill in the air feels unnatural. All of the candles in the room have somehow died, or are faintly withering away, dimming the light to the point that he can barely see the small hallway ahead. He flexes his fingers around the mound again.

How?

Did she plan this from the beginning? Had this been her little scheme all along? Find protection under him just long enough for him to kill that cannibalistic bastard? Is this what she _wanted?_

Voice dried in his throat, he silently lays the sheets where they were and crawls off the bed. His boots thud against the cold floor, echoing through the room as it is the only sound besides the steady hum of the ventilation system. He snatches a candle from the desk with his sketchbook and ruffles through the mess to find a lighter. The flame burns his eyes when it is alive, but the sting is pleasant. It anchors him to reality.

The dullness coursing through him makes his actions feel surreal. Borderline imaginary and real, he walks the narrow tightrope and sways from side to side, quietly searching the room and hall for any signs of life. She likes to hide in small, dark, shadowy spaces, so he checks every corner. He bends to look under the tables, crouches to peer behind doorways, runs his hands along the floor and walls and sniffs the air for any scent of her.

Gone.

But the question is no longer just how, but why. Why would she leave when he saved her from that crazed man? Why would she leave when he was willing to keep her warm, fed, and protected? Isn't that what all women want and need out of a man, a place for comfort, warmth, food, and the utmost love? So why, why why _why,_ would she sneak out and leave him while he was intoxicated in oblivion? He _trusted_ her.

Eddie swallows thickly and tries to blink away the wetness building in his eyes. Something snaps – no, breaks – in his chest and he can't seem to find his breath. He gasps, but the air is too far away. Dull and aching, his heart slows to an irregular beat that refuses to pump blood through his veins. His fingers tremble. His toes are freezing. His vision is blurred by tears and soon he is dragging the back of his gloved hand over his eyes, sniffling, balling the other hand into a fist and eventually biting his glove to keep from crying out in frustration.

It is his own damn fault that she left. He allowed himself to feel comfortable while knowing that she was a frightened bird. She was afraid and dazed, never taught how to properly love someone. She was neglected the chance to completely come into her womanhood and that had left her wary of men. He had known this, but he rushed her anyway. Didn't she say that she was not ready for children? By god, she wasn't ready for _anything._

He slams his fist against the wall and groans, arms shaking, bowing his head to press his forehead against the cold. She ran away because he was so stupid, stupid, _stupid._ Quick to anger yet slow to listen, he lured her like sheep to wolves. Perhaps she would have been more receptive if he hadn't forced himself upon her – if he had been more courteous of her concerns and forgotten his assumptions. Because he assumed her ideals and took it upon himself to further them without examination, he never fully recognized the many gaps in her thought process.

Expecting a girl to be a woman, ha! How foolish.

Drawing a long breath, he holds it until his lungs are screaming for release before sighing. Despite how the world seems to spin around him, he attempts to steady his feet and back away from the wall. One step, he is wobbly, but three steps later Eddie feels secure enough to shake his head and walk towards the door.

He'll just have to be patient and teach her how a proper woman is supposed to love and behave. If she does not know, then how can he hold it against her? He was going about their relationship the wrong way this entire time.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Eddie taps the workroom's door closed with his foot and then starts down the hall of the Vocational Block. Light shines through cracked windows here and there, but everything is mostly shrouded in darkness. Bittersweet thoughts tread his mind as he walks past the many rows of broken sewing machines and mannequins, scrunching his nose as he passes their rotting models.

Whores. All purposed to fall before his feet and be used as he determines. Their elegant dresses are stained by blood and other excrements to the point where the entire piece is soiled, never to be worn again. It is a pity to have such nice fabrics wasted on them, but there's nothing he can do now. Eddie runs a finger along the whore's waist as he passes her body.

Cold air breezes past him as he makes his way through the block, maneuvering through rooms to check for any signs of Waylon being there. It is reasonable that she could have gotten lost in his little labyrinth, and even more plausible that she couldn't have gotten too far away. Especially without his-

Eddie pats his waist and finds empty air around belt loops. He slides his hands down the length of his vest and pants, digging into every pocket and still finding nothing but space. They should have been on him, somewhere, safely kept away so no one can take it. He pats his body again but to no avail. And it is then that he remembers the events before he fell asleep. He came back into the workroom, saw Waylon, and then…then…

The turn of his heel is sharp enough to break his ankle, but he ignores the sting as he heads towards the only feasible place his darling could have gone. The corner of his lip curls into a snarl. That little minx, it amazes him how clever she is. In the face of mass turmoil and danger, Waylon always seem to concoct a plan of escape. Eddie doesn't give her all of the credit she deserves.

By the time he can see the awkwardly shoved open metal door leading to the male ward, he is simmering with excitement. The looming chase courses through his veins in adrenaline, swirling relentlessly and making him stumble back into that world of surrealism. He can practically taste it. Eyes locked on the shadows to come, he does not notice the small, golden chains until he hears a crunch under his shoe. He ignores it at first, but the crunching does not stop even after three strides. Now curious, he glances down at his feet and catches just the faintest glint.

It reflects off of the light behind him, shining softly among the darkness. Eddie lifts his right foot only to expose more chains underneath. They are scattered on the ground, torn in violent haste and tossed haphazardly. Gaze travelling along the floor, he sees the farthest remnant a foot or two away, resting against the wall.

"Darling," he whispers, feeling something heavy fall into the pit of his stomach, like lead. Eddie tries to wet his lips but his tongue is dry. It hurts, but the sight itself is not painful. It is the symbol that is upsetting; he stares at the image of Waylon rejecting their love – but how can he be upset? He scared her. The cannibal scared her. And that is what he's here to fix. That is why he searching for her now, to fix this.

Swiping aside the gold chains, Eddie crouches into the space that is now clear and begins to gather the small pieces into his palm, collecting them as he tries to calm his quivering heart. He had expected vicious anger to consume him, and for a second he could feel it bubbling, yet for some reason it has quelled to a small note of annoyance. The idea is simultaneously baffling and calming. He plucks the last chain from the floor and balls his fist tightly around them before funneling them into his back pocket.

Fear has a way of getting to people; he knows this, has felt it and learned to harness the terror of others for his advantage. It is a skill that has to be taught, since life is a constant cycle of overcoming fear. Of the unknown, of the future, of the past, of someone or something, the meaning behind fear does not matter as much as it being there. He has felt fear many times before, but most of the memories are hidden behind a veil of whirring and images that came with the engine. However, Eddie recollects that he learned the skill before he woke up. He had used it, instilled it in others. How? He does not remember, yet the fact remains that fear had, at some point, become an ally of his.

Maybe his darling was too fragile for it? He can only believe that, hang on to it because it is the safest route for him (and her). As he walks through the eerily quiet male ward his thoughts are fixed of Waylon and trying to piece together two problems: what is she afraid of and how to fix it. So consumed in his thoughts, Eddie does not notice the growing shadow behind him, creeping along the walls as he stares straight ahead. The quiet is misleading; the shadow follows him into a large room with chains hanging from the ceiling and drops of blood splattering on to the ground.

Somewhere in the distance, a sweet melody begins to play.

Eddie jolts from its suddenness and sharply turns around. He searches the area around him but nothing has changed. No shadows, no movements, no sounds except for the music coursing through the ward. He breathes in deeply and wraps his hand around the knife holstered on his hip, gripping it tightly. Cautiously, he walks back to the doorway of the room and peers around the corner.

_"I don't want to set the world on fire…"_

The hallway stretches farther than he thought, but the shadows hold no sign of life, so he gently steps away from the door and continues his search. A large light shines at the center of the room, beaming down on a bloody mattress suspended by chains and wooden columns. Scraggly beds sit in rows across each other, and opposite the highlighted mattress is a fortress of overturned beds and mattresses strapped together by belts and rope.

_"I just want to start a flame in your heart…"_

He approaches the bloody mattress as one would a wild animal, hand on his weapon and on soft, meticulous feet. Red glistens in the light, showcasing its freshness while a pungent odor of iron rises from the mattress. It spills from around the edges of the bed, pints of blood streaming like a river. Eddie steps into the puddle and pulls out his knife.

_"In my heart I have but one desire, and that one is you… no other will do…"_

Whoever's blood this is…Eddie bites his lower lip in the habit of his lover's, which only serves to make his stomach tighten. His little bird, off to fly on her own but she could have… Some _whore_ could have found her and-

Something clatters to the ground behind him and then he hears the faintest sound of groaning - whimpering almost - coming from the same direction that the music is. He quickly retightens his grip on the knife and heads towards it on heavy feet. The music grows louder as he crosses the hall to a much larger room (lit by a combination of candles and light bulbs) but he focuses on the groaning.

_"I've lost all ambition… for worldly acclaim…"_

So sickeningly familiar.

_"I just want to be the one you love…"_

Rage begins to simmer but he has no will to fight it.

_"And with your admission that you feel the same…"_

Splotches of blood mark his path as he travels deeper into the room, growing in size the closer he gets to the source of music. The man sings louder; the groans become agonizing. Eddie's muscles flinch in anticipation. He grits his teeth.

_"I'll have reached the goal I'm dreaming of…"_

The blood stops at the back of the room, pooling underneath a grey, wooden door. An upside down cross dangles above it, and the walls are carved by scratch marks and broken fingernails. Eddie listens to the soft coo of the singer, and feels his blood rage to the acute groaning coming from behind the door. It sounds so familiar, and in this moment Eddie is reminded of his ally. Fear…it has a way of getting to people.

_"Believe me…"_

"Eddie!" Waylon screams when he shoves open the door, knife raised to attack but he almost drops it when their eyes meet. Chained down to a rotating, circular block of wood, Waylon stares at him with wide eyes and a frightened expression, sprawled and trying to jerk her wrists out from under the chains but the pressure only bruises. Her dress sways with the cycle of the wood, and Eddie can make out stripes of blood and dirt coating her dress and body. He is frozen by the scene before him, a playfully sinister wheel binding his darling by heavy chains as blood drips down the side of her forehead. His body tries to still him, but he has no control over the surge of energy moving him forward. All he knows is that he needs to save her, _now._

Eddie moves with speed unknown, grabbing the edge of the wheel as best as he can and yanking it counter-clockwise to stop its motion. He adjusts it so that Waylon is positioned upright, and then comes to stand in front of her.

He wipes away the tears from her cheeks with a shaky hand. "Darling, darling what happened to you?" Eddie stumbles to grab one of the chains and lift it off of her wrist. It doesn't budge. "Who did this to you? Who chained you up like this?"

Waylon shakes her head violently. "I-I don't know! I don't k-know him-"

"Where did he find you?"

"E-Eddie I-"

"I need you to answer me!" He shouts and stabs the far corner of the wheel, above Waylon's head but she flinches from the impact. Another whimper escapes her lips, and the noise makes him regret ever yelling. Eddie inhales shakily and tries to steady his breathing, but it is so goddamn hard when his darling is covered in blood and crying.

This time when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. "Waylon, what happened to you?"

"I was… I-I was running and – and then he just came out of n-nowhere," she lifts her chin and sucks in breath through her teeth only to lose it in a hiccup. "Oh god E-Eddie he just… I don't even – I don't know! I t-tried to fight him off b-but then – I couldn't see anything anymore," Waylon sobs. "Everything was s-so dark."

Gently, Eddie curls his fingers through her hair to lift it away from her face, feeling around for the source of the blood leaking down her forehead, but he can't find it. Even after sifting through her hair, pulling strands apart just to make sure, the cut is nonexistent. Eddie drops his attention to the blood on her dress. It is still wet, but no matter where he looks he can't pinpoint the cut. Eddie reaches above her head and pulls out his knife. "Waylon," he taps her cheek to regain her attention, "are you hurt?"

Waylon's eyes are glossy. "Hurt?"

"Did he hurt you, darling? Where is this blood coming from?"

"…Not mine," she says, and the wave of relief that washes over him is intense, but he has to be sure.

"He didn't cut you? You're not bleeding? Darling, are you saying that this blood isn't yours?" Eddie yanks on one of the chains by her feet. "Are you sure?"

She hiccups and coughs, but nods her head. "Not mine… E-Eddie, I don't know what ha-happened."

"I'll get you out of here."

"I-I'm so s-sorry."

He stops pulling on the chain and looks up at her - his goddess, with puffy, red eyes and tears streaming down her face. Her lips tremble and the blood on her forehead trickles down to her cheek. Eddie grabs her hand. "You don't have to apologize, my lov-"

"I was so scared, Eddie. I shouldn't h-have left you, I… Eddie," she tries but isn't able to hold back her tears any longer. They ravage through her like a flood, all of the anguish and horror, and all Eddie can do is watch. Watch as his love heaves heavy tears and trembles even under the weight of the chains. He feels something in his chest clench and has to turn away before it could grow. Squeezing the hand in his before letting go, Eddie goes back to the chain around her foot and starts to loosen it.

He tugs on it until he feels a slack, and then rotates around the knot until the chain drops with a loud thud.

He is halfway through the second chain when the music suddenly stops and a cold laughter replaces it. Biting and fierce, it pierces through the air and drills a hole into Eddie's ear, travelling through his mind until it hits something that has him turning on his heel and readying his knife.

In the doorway is a man, stitched together and slowly clapping.

"Bravo! What a wonderful performance that was," he claps, "I must say that I am very impressed. It's not every day that a man gets to witness a romantic tragedy in this dump; a shame really. If the government is going to spend our tax dollars on mundane expenditures then this should surely be on the list."

The man strides in confidence, head held high on his shoulders and arms graciously swaying at his side despite holding a pair of shears the length of his tibia. Eddie watches him like a hawk. The variant stops at a desk and flips open some sort of book. He holds the shears under his arm and licks his finger to turn each page. The crinkle of paper scratches at Eddie's ears and he clenches his jaw, adjusting the knife to re-position his guard. The man closes his book and walks forward, but stops at the brink where shadow ends and light penetrates. Although Eddie can't see his eyes, he knows that they are staring through him.

"Who could have known that we would fall to this? A knife outstretched to slit the throat of another man, tell me, where is the camaraderie in that?"

Eddie scoffs. "You did this."

" _I_ did this? Are you seriously going to lay the blame solely on me?" He pauses for an answer, but silence reigns between them. "Well then, I see how it is. Your little 'bride' runs away from home and you blame the one who finds her. Okay, I guess I can see your point, with the spinning, chainy wheel and all, but seriously you should be thanking me right now."

"How _dare_ you-"

"Ah, ah, ah, _I'm_ the one talking here." The man pauses, and then howls in fake laughter. "Isn't that one classic? A little déjà vu for two am I right, or am I right?" he snickers, and then straightens up as if nothing happened. He taps his bone shears against the floor. "As I was saying before being rudely interrupted, you should be thanking me because I saved you a) a hell of a lot of trouble trying to find this little dime and b) the chance to reunite with your proclaimed lover."

Eddie swipes his knife through the air. "You did no such thing."

"But I did, I did. You see, your damsel in distress is rather slippery. Crawling through vents and hiding in lockers or under tables; but unlike you, I've had experienced with this type. And to tell you the truth, it is not worth the effort; but anywho, if it wasn't for me your 'bride' would have been long gone by now, wouldn't you have you little dog," he coos and waves past Eddie's shoulder to Waylon. He stops when Eddie steps in front of her.

Sighing, the man continues. "I suppose appreciation was a bit too much of a stretch for you… but I at least expected happiness. To see me."

Eddie narrows his eyes at the man. "And why is that?"

Holding his gaze, the man allows the pregnant silence to serenade the room until it is drenched in hostility; then, and only then, does he step into the light. "Because I've missed you, _buddy._ "


	11. This Is How The World Works

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And after a (not so) short break for the summer, we continue~

" _There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience…"_

\- Martin Luther King _Letter from Birmingham Jail_

* * *

She sits with her arms hugging her chest, knees drawn close under her to trap in any and all warmth. The heater burning close to her is a good two degrees warmer than the rest of the room, but the effort is clearly appreciated. Her eyes flutter up for a brief second before hurriedly rushing down to their rightful gaze on the floor. The radiator hums lightly in tune with the dry whistles of wind from outside. Among the mass of dead candles are a few tenacious ones that carry the light from the ceiling into the hallway. It blends with the white from windows and creates a pattern of soft yellow on the floor and walls. In the not-so-far distance one can still hear the melody of an ancient song.

"We base it on a standard of belief. Respect. Honesty. Trust, is just another connection shared between two people."

Her hands twitch on their own accord; nimble fingers etch characters onto pale skin, flushing her knuckles and wrists red. Breathe in. Breathe out. A tremble rakes her body and causes her to suck in air through her teeth.

"In its simplest form, one can say that it is just the acceptance that another is reliable. I trust you, is saying that I can depend on you. I can _not_ trust you, or I do _not_ trust you, is to say that I cannot depend on you. You are not reliable. You are not trustworthy."

Perhaps she feels cold because the heater is too far away, so carefully she runs her hand along the dusty floor until she can wrap it around the base of the radiator. She silently scoots it closer and shuffles her body so that her side is almost pressed against its vents. The heat scorches her thighs, but the contrast is just too pleasant for her to give it away. Submitting to the growing pain, she bites her lip and closes her eyes.

"But this, oh no this is something entirely different. This is _real_ trust. A bond stronger than such flimsy connection. Somewhere along the way, our destinies have intertwined, and what is yours has somehow become mine."

"You're wrong about that."

"Am I now?"

Eddie drags the dull blade down the side of his cheek, keeping his arm leveled to avoid any additional pressure while making sure that the small, infrequent nicks are felt. The sight is mesmerizing in the dirtiest of ways, and he feels sick just relinquishing in it, but the power feels too good and he can't just give that away.

He shouldn't feel anything.

They share a breath, and then Trager is smirking. He says, "Because ever since we've met I haven't been able to get rid of you." Their gazes move to the thick chain wrapped around Trager's neck when a small clink resounds from the metal. The knife rests there for a few seconds, wavering silently as Eddie's fist grows white from how tight he's clenching it. When he takes a step back, Trager tries to move forward but is held back by the chain. He grunts but it does nothing to loosen Eddie's grip.

"Chains, so many chains and we are bonded by all them," Trager groans around the metal coiled around his neck, raspy voice a mere whisper of the familiar, confident stride of vocals. "Buddy, can't you see the link between us? From that very day in the hospital...I knew that we were meant to be together."

"You hurt her," Eddie growls, knife coming dangerously close to the corner of Trager's eye. The tip brushes an eyelash but the good doctor refuses to flinch. "And your philosophy is vile, disgusting, vulgar in every aspect and you have no shame for basking in it. I should just kill you now for what you did to her," Eddie jerks the chain to grind a link into Trager's throat, "why shouldn't I kill you?"

Trager's hands flex reflexively into fists, balling and curling into the dark fabric tied around his waist. Trager narrows his eyes at the man before him, and in this moment Eddie can feel the venom boiling within. He can taste the blood on his tongue and hear the rush of adrenaline through his veins. Anger is a fierce thing, and when it is directed it becomes volatile. But the rush only lasts a second before the doctor is calm again, hands relaxed, eyes trained to the bloody blue in front of him, completely ignoring the clear tip of the knife wedged right above his cheek. Eddie tilts the blade and swipes right, cutting into raw flesh and leaving a line of crimson to ooze freely, but even that does not break the man's resolve.

Instead, it makes him chuckle. "You just don't seem to understand, do you?" Trager spits. "I have done _nothing_ wrong!"

" _Look_ at her, Trager!" He shouts and grabs Trager's chin viciously, jerking it far enough to the side for him to see Waylon curled on the floor, head bowed, eyes averted and body shaking. She neither reacts nor flinch when Eddie shouts Her eyes are cast away and Eddie appreciates that. She does not need to see; she does not need to hear. His knees buckle slightly and the feeling makes him stand taller. This pain, it will fade but Trager needs to see first - he needs to see what he did to her. "You took her. You snatched her up like a stray bitch and chained her for display-"

"I saved her for you-"

"You frightened her while she was broken." The chain digs deeper, presses a little harder against fragile bone. Eddie hears something that sounds like a gag but does not stop. He presses further, further, _harder._ "I should kill you," he says through clenched teeth, "I should kill you and hang you up with the rest of them."

"And w-who are they? Your _whores,_ buddy? The whores that _I_ gave you?" Trager accuses and Eddie looks back at him, hardened features watching as the man's bottom lip quivers and saliva falls from the corner of his mouth. Eddie scuffs before loosening his hold on the chain, allowing Trager a few seconds to gasp. When he's finished, the doctor glares up at him. "I gave you your sanctuary. I showed you how to hunt, how to kill. You were an amateur before me," he says.

"I was there when you were nothing but a name, a figure without a face and a monster for campfire stories. Buddy, we built each other. We were molded from the same block of clay, crafted by different hands but our _chains_ are the same. You can't kill me. Your angel was falling from heaven, she ate from the Tree of Knowledge and tasted the bliss of the forbidden fruit. She wanted freedom. Freedom not from me, but freedom from _you."_ He snarls. _"_ I was just an obstacle in her way."

The knife comes down across Trager's forearm and his hiss is muffled under the clank of metal on metal. The chain cuffing his arm rattles gently, and Eddie leaves the knife there to rest in the cut. He has the urge to push it in - stab Trager and twist the knife - but he resists the impulse for now. He resists the impulse...but his arm is unsteady. Hovering in the air to create much needed distance between them. Trager is chained to the wheel in mockery of what he did to Waylon. His throat guarded by a thick link, arms and knees pinned by the cool metal. The music plays behind them, the candles rot beside them, and somewhere to his right the bone shears clatter on to the floor.

_Stab him._

Eddie can hear the blood dripping to the floor. Softly, it falls from a gash in Trager's abdomen. So grotesque, it made bile rise in Eddie's throat when it was exposed to him.

_Stab him._

How do you make Trager juice? Step 1: squeeze. Trager had laughed at the little note. Had laughed at the sickening commentary of his own supposed death; he had even laughed when Eddie drove the knife into his gut and sliced.

_Stab him._

The stitches were fresh and tight. Trager had done them himself. Found a rusted needle and dropped it in a pail of bleach before looping black thread around it. Did it hurt when he pulled his torn flesh together and sewed the cut closed? Did it hurt when he had to throw himself off of a desk to pop his back into place? How had he done it? Eddie couldn't imagine the pain or the sheer determination required to mend oneself after being crushed by an elevator. But somehow, someway, Trager managed to do it. Trager managed to fix himself and come back with vengeance.

_Stab him._

Did he follow the gold trail that Waylon left behind? Did he stalk his darling like some sort of demented predator and pounced when he saw an opportunity? Did Waylon fight back? Did she scream, did she cry, did she try to hide like she always does?

Did she call for Eddie?

Eddie doesn't know, so he has to guess. He has to imagine that Trager attacked her - hurt her - or else...or else... Eddie's expression falls, and the brief moment of resignation is enough to spark a light in Trager.

"It is what we are here for, buddy, it is why we were destined to meet," Trager says. "You and I, we trust each other. When the money fails, when God dies, when we're left to crawl out from shit and ashes... we have each other. And I saved your...darling...for just that reason. I saved her for you, Gluskin." He reaches out, gnawed fingers straining to reach beyond the constriction of the chain. His fingers brush against Eddie's arm, and the contact makes his stomach flip in a mixture of disgust and unease; however, he does not reject it. "You won't kill me, because I got her back for you. And you damn well need to remember that."

* * *

 

The Trager before him is a skeleton of the man he once knew, all skin and bones with no meat. Not to say that there was much to begin with, but the difference is clear in how his ribs jut out and his joints aim to pierce through his skin. Postmortem must have done this to him, but Eddie supposes that the effects are only reasonable. Dying is usually permanent.

He sits on the floor beside a bundle of candles with Waylon's head nestled in his lap, one hand stroking her hair soothingly while the other holds him upright. The burn on her side is unsightly, rows of welts lined to resemble the vents on the heater she has been clinging to. Earlier when he tried to take it away from her, she almost broke down in tears and kept reaching for it despite burning her hand. It keeps her warm, she repeated, and when he offered to hold her so that she can stay warm he had to agree not to move the radiator too far. Her antics are almost delusional, but Eddie cannot hold it against her. It would be hypocritical, especially when he's not too sure of reality himself.

"It's just a matter of trust," Trager's voice sounds from across the room. The doctor is pacing in wide ovals, absentmindedly opening and closing his shears as he occasionally glances at Eddie. "You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours. It's just how the world works."

Eddie eyes the wound in Trager's arm. "And what exactly does this back scratching entail? We are not friends, Trager. I won't agree to anything that will put my darling Waylon at risk again."

"You're killing me here, stop worrying. Drink a martini, enjoy the sunset, this is just the exposition to a great business deal." Trager sighs and spreads his arms before smiling down at him. "Tell me, Mr. Gluskin, what is it that you desire?"

The question catches Eddie off guard. He furrows his eyebrows and Trager's grin widens. "Be realistic now, I can't work miracles. You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours. What is it that you want, right now, that I will be able to do for you?"

Waylon shifts beside him and nudges her head against Eddie's stomach. Desire? His gut reaction is to wish Trager dead, but the quip would be a waste and the words taste like a lie. It feels like a trap to answer, as if Trager will promise him something and never produce, yet the promise is only a mask for the uncertainty of what the doctor has to ask. The concoction is ripe, ready to enact whenever the go is given. Trager has a scheme, Eddie knows, some sort of manipulation ready to be carried out. Devious, but the question is so tempting. What is it that he wants? What is it that Trager can give him for making him do whatever the hell he has imagined? Eddie doesn't want to answer while simultaneously can feel his lips peeling apart.

His mouth opens, and the words do not feel like his own when he hears himself speak.

"Perform Waylon's surgery, safely, without any schemes or errors or trickery. I've seen you do it before," he says, tone crisp with the intention of a warning. _H_ _urt her, and I_ will _kill you._ The unspoken words are unnecessary, for Trager simply nods and clasps his hands behind his back in giddy. Eddie tugs on a strand of Waylon's hair just to see if she is awake, and when she remains still he allows himself to exhale.

Above him, Trager shuffles a few feet closer. "I knew you would ask this, I should have just offered honestly. But no, I won't hurt her. Not at all, not at all. I have...better things to do with my time," he smirks and then erases it when Eddie sits up straighter. "Now remember, an exchange is an exchange. I will gratefully operate on Mrs. Waylon Gluskin if you help me with a tiny problem."

Eddie cups Waylon's cheek. "Which is?"

_Step 1: squeeze._

"I need you to help me find and kill someone," the glint in his eye is lethal, and with the baritone of a madman Trager calls the name of his victim.

"A mister Miles Upshur."


	12. Down Into Our Nightmares He Went

It feels strange to be in pants again, is what Waylon dully notes as they walk down a hallway lined with windows. Hidden behind the tall cathedral across the courtyard lies rays of orange and yellow that lead the way for a slowly crawling sun; the last time he saw the sun rise, Waylon does not remember. But here, trailing just slightly behind the two psychopaths, he is not sure whether he appreciates the sunlight or wants to shield himself from it.

Is this a dream or reality? If he recognizes how the sun rises and falls, does that make everything concrete? Every step is tiresome because he feels so drained, as if he's been running for miles without rest. Waylon runs his dry tongue over equally chapped lips. If jello melts in sunlight then perhaps his gelatinous body will too. And for a split second he pauses, ceasing his steps to stand directly in the orange light before almost smacking the sense back into his head. He bites his bottom lip and squeezes his eyes shut. So stupid, stupid, _stupid-_

"Darling?" Eddie calls from a good distance in front of him. He raises an eyebrow at him and moves to retrace his steps to stand by Waylon's side, but the former computer technician shakes his head and jogs forward.

Waylon's face twitches when he feels the fabric between his thighs rub. The material feels so foreign after spending a day running around in a dress. Although he's relieved to be back in an outfit that outlines his masculinity, he can't quiet the voice in his head whispering that he's being constricted. From the grey sleeves curling around his shoulders to the brown, ragged slacks creating a tube around his legs, the clothes seem to limit his movements. He traces a finger along the collar gently, almost subconsciously, until something warm loops under his palm and drags his fingers away.

"We'll get you out of this filthy outfit as soon as we can," Eddie says with his hand pulling Waylon's into a tight hold. "It was just the closest outfit we had. If it makes you feel any better, I regret putting it on you."

It doesn't, of course it doesn't, but simultaneously Waylon prefers dirty clothes over those stained with blood. His stomach churns at the thought and he accidentally squeezes Eddie's hand, but the man takes it as an offer of gratitude. He smiles down at Waylon with bright, blue eyes that seem to glow in the golden light, and if Waylon smiles back then it is just to reassure his own safety, and not to reciprocate the affection.

* * *

They are like ghouls and ghostly figures, wrinkled and torn skin folding over bones and malnourished fat. The majority of them are no more than undead skeletons. They are not alive, not in the sense that living means more than just breathing with a pumping heart. Though oxygen and blood courses through their veins their spirits have rot and left their bodies. These are just reflexes; these are just acts of memory.

Trager leads them into the rancid courtyard by a few feet. Swinging the shears like a child would a doll or action figure, he eyes each and every variant with narrowed eyes and a sharp gaze. Eddie trails behind him with the same expression, however, he will occasionally glance back at Waylon with the softest eyes and kindest tilt to his lips. A shame how such a simple, and mostly unwanted, gesture can calm Waylon's nerves.

Turning his attention to the courtyard, Waylon notes the group of variants playing basketball to his left. There are about ten of them, but only four are playing. Two teams of two jog back and forth and dribble something spherical and flat. He frowns at what he assumes to be the ball. It is discolored and misshaped, which shouldn't ring any alarms because everything in this cursed place is dingy and bent out of shape, but for some reason just the sight of it sends shrills crawling along his skin. Drawn to the players, who luckily seem to not have noticed them yet, Waylon steps from behind Eddie and edges closer to the side of the cement sidewalk, where weeds and grass begin to break past the composite. Small rocks grind against his heel and toes uncomfortably. Waylon stops walking when one of the variants shuffle around another's ankles and takes aim to throw the ball.

He shoots it, form a broken semblance of what it used to be, and the ball spirals into the air. The ball, so distorted and grey, not completely round, flat in various places, rebounds off the backboard and is sent right into the other team's hands. Some guys on the sideline groan and shout while the rest on them holler in excitement. But the ball, so distorted and grey, is being held in such an awkward position. Waylon wants to see it up close. He wants to figure out what he probably shouldn't know.

But Eddie and Trager are quite a bit ahead now, and if he doesn't catch up with them Eddie will turn around and reprimand him. 'Keep up darling,' he'd say, 'it's unsafe for you to be so far away.' Waylon goes to walk forward, but his feet do not budge. He lifts his leg but his knee only jerks, and there's a pressure there that he hasn't felt before. It grows stronger, warmer, reaching around his calves and diving under his pants leg to hold on to bare skin. Waylon tries again but this time his attempts are futile; nothing moves. Not his hip, not his legs, not his feet. The pressure exerts itself on to his waist and that is when he cries out, finally looking down to see crooked fingers and skeletal arms wrapped around his lower half.

" _So warm. I need to feel you…need to hold you,"_ it growls into his ear and Waylon swings his elbow back into something soft. He hears a loud _snap_ like teeth knocking into each other, and the hands around his legs pull back to trip him. His hip hits the cement first. It sends a sharp, steaming pain up his side and spine and Waylon can't contain the scream that tears past his lips. He grinds his teeth and kicks while trying to pull himself up by his arms, but the man holding his ankles anticipates this and presses his thighs around Waylon's legs to keep them still.

" _You're a slippery one,"_ he growls and then starts clawing. Sharp nails dig into Waylon's arms and he moves them in an attempt to stop the assault, but the variant is too fast. His friend, the one standing over them, watches with a sick mixture of amusement. Waylon catches his eye and the monster smiles, _smiles_ and _laughs_ as Waylon struggles to crawl out from under the fast being. He twists his body until it feels like his spine is about to pop and manages to punch the quick bastard in the face. It gives him leverage, and he raises his leg to kick him off when an ear-piercing scream rips through the air.

It can only be described as the squelch of boots in mud, the slippery noise of a semi-liquid being pushed aside by an unstoppable force. Wet, disgusting, so loud the sound will forever be engraved in Waylon's memory.

The weight on Waylon's shins drop. Slowly, he turns his head in its direction and immediately tastes acid in his throat at the sight.

Staring right back at him is the remains of his attacker, mouth quivering agape and wide eyes boring into his soul. Blood squirts out from his stomach and paints Waylon's pants red. The variant's body jerks, pressing closer to Waylon and he swallows his horror pitifully. Waylon scampers out from under the body and swipes at his clothes but avoids the dripping blood. His fingers are trembling uncontrollably, and after a moment he realizes that it's his entire body that's moving. Below him is a groan, around him is silence, and yet behind him is the sound of familiar growls and quiet pleas.

"You touched her." Eddie's voice is dangerously low and raspy, as if straining to keep from hollering its grievances.

" _I didn't- he… he was so- so-"_

Eddie twists his hand into the variant's hair and yanks it back, bending the man's spine until he is folded on his knees. The variant is pinned there by Eddie's hand and boots, tears streaming down his face and contorting his features into something truly ugly. But his anguish is forgotten, and Eddie grinds his boots harder on the variant's calves. In one swift motion, Eddie's knife is pointed at the side of the variant's neck. He allows him to shout and scream. Allows him to cry until his sorrow is no more than sobs and hiccups, and when all that is left in the variant is whimpers, Eddie slits his throat and slams his forehead into the cement.

Above them he hears the ruffle of feathers and the croon of crows; besides that, the courtyard is quiet.

Eddie slides his knife through the variant's clothes to clean it and then places it back at his hip before leveling his gaze on Waylon. The contact has a momentary twinge of hostility, a signature of blame for stepping away from his side, and then it dissipates into concern and want. Waylon tries to convince himself that he is not in need of the contact, that he doesn't desire it, but when Eddie wraps his long arms around him and pulls him close Waylon finds himself almost melting into the comfort. He sighs and breathes in the musky scent of iron and earth that he now exclusively associates with Eddie, and almost has the urge to hug him back. Fortunately, the lack of reciprocation is taken in stride.

"Darling, this is the second time that you pulled away from me and Trager," Eddie says and leans back so that he can look Waylon in the eye. "Is something the matter?"

Waylon opens his mouth believing that he had an answer ready and finds that no words are forming. He blinks, cheeks turning rosy, and glances past Eddie to stare at the still basketball players. One variant grasps the ball in his hand strangely, but from this distance Waylon still cannot make out its definite shape.

"…No," Waylon starts. "Eddie I-"

"Is everyone paying attention?" Trager shouts to their right, and Eddie twists to face him. He is standing over the bodies of Waylon's aggressors, one hand cupping around his mouth to act as a megaphone while the other grips his bloody shears. He scissors them for their clanking sound which rings loud. There is murmuring around them, some in places that cannot be seen due to the low fog that coats the ground. But the sun is higher in the sky now, and for the most part the courtyard is entirely visible. Trager turns on his heel slowly, and by the time he comes to a full rotation everyone is shushed.

"Good, good," Trager nods his head at a few variants. "Now that I have everyone's attention, I would like to set up some ground rules before we continue." He lowers his hands to clasp them together. "Rule number one! We will not have any more violent acts of aggression directed towards our friend Waylon here. He's a bit frail, as you all can see, and if you so much as look at him strangely I'm sure that mama bear Gluskin will have some not-so-polite words to say to you." Trager scratches his chin and mumbles, "Words in the form of his fists and that wonderful knife, actually."

A few of the variants shuffle and shake the metal fence linked around the yard, and Waylon can practically feel the heat of their eyes staring. He frowns at Trager, not understanding why, in the first place, he is standing there talking to these monsters, but he keeps quiet all the same.

"Rule number two! I will not be interrupted while I am talking-"

_"Fuck you!"_

"Who said that?" The doctor jerks to his right and point his shears in the direction the voice came from. He stares, hunched over, narrowing his eyes at the smirking variants. They do not move in discomfort, actually jabbing each other in the arm and making small jokes. Trager steps forward. "Ah, I see that we have some children among us, as expected. Please, I beseech you. Whoever spoke, I ask you to come here. Cowardice is not a flattering quality, no?"

The variants by the fence rattle the links, nudging each other more forcefully now until one in particular is picked out of the group. He is broad but sickly, clenching a wooden bat with nails drilled into it. An arrogant bastard, cocking his head to the side and sending Trager a smirk of razor teeth as he gingerly approaches the doctor. Waylon catches a split second where Trager seemed about to yawn.

All around them the variants begin to rile, shifting in a haunting way that announces their growing presence. He can see some hanging out of windows, gathering at the courtyard's entrance, and pooling closer to the center. Eddie lowers his hold to Waylon's waist and takes a step forward, possibly to balance the distance between them and the others, and rests his free hand on his knife. The tension begins to mount when Trager and the pugnacious variant are a few feet apart, and by now Waylon can't help but to be acutely aware of his surroundings.

They stare down each other, and Waylon is definitely sure that the variant is the first to move.

He pulls his bat high in the air, aiming to bash Trager's head in quickly, but the doctor counters it by stepping under the variant's arm and plunging his shears in right below the variant's ribs. He chokes and gasps, dropping the bat almost immediately and going to choke Trager yet by the time he moves he is already being thrown to the ground. Trager backs away with his shears pointed at the downed man, but he is spaced far enough away for display. The crowd bubbles with excitement, some variants rattling the fence vigorously, all the while their comrade lies shaking on the ground, clutching his stomach as blood oozes out.

Waylon's throat dries but he feels no pity or sympathy for the man. The tension is still a mountain on his shoulders. Trager, however, is reveling in the atmosphere. He whistles to call for attention and waits until most of the noise has died down. "Moving right along," he shouts so that his voice carries, "I have one simple question." Now, his shears are pointed at Waylon. "Who here has seen, or know the location of, someone who looks very much like him. The small one. Our friend."

"Watch it," Eddie says through gritted teeth and Trager just winks at him before turning back to the crowd. He continues with, "The kid I am looking for should have been seen with Father Martin, crawling through air vents, or running all lost-like in the hallways. Anyone? Has anyone seen him?"

The crowd's clamor grows as they begin to laugh and speak amongst each other. Waylon watches as those hanging out the windows step back into the building only to return seconds later with another variant. Some yell in outrage while others talk peacefully. Father Martin, the voices repeat in a sort of twisted harmony. They sound afraid, hurt, annoyed, and furious. The cacophony of voices is too confusing to decipher, and Waylon is soon ignoring the audio to instead note the gathering variants and their proximity.

The more they talk, they closer they come. It is unnerving how much the clatter has grown since they first entered the almost empty courtyard. He feels no disgust or shame for slinging his arm around Eddie's broad chest to keep them close. The Groom's expression shifts slightly, conveying that he noticed the change, but his focus is on searching the area. He takes a few steps closer to Trager, yet this only worsens Waylon's anxiety. Tugging on Eddie's shirt to grab his attention, Waylon stands on his toes to whisper in Eddie's ear.

"There are too many of them. I think," he gives the courtyard another glance; "I think we should go. Soon."

Eddie lifts his hand to the back of Waylon's neck and gently turns his head a little to the left. He says, "There, a bit past the ones on the fence. There is a small opening where the fences connect. There are too many where we entered from, and the other doorways are also crowded. Darling, you can fit through there easily."

" _You killed him!"_

" _Hey! Hey look over here! I know, I've seen that bastard before! Just like the kid…ye, he went down-"_

" _Wernicke did this to us…Find him…He's dead."_

"Eddie, what are you…" Waylon can see it, the small gap in the fence. It is thinner than the spaces between bookshelves that he has slipped through, but if he ran… It was possible. But Eddie is much bigger than him, and if they go together - Waylon angles himself so that he is almost standing in front of Eddie. "How would you fit? You can't. Eddie, you can't."

The variants edge closer, breathing, shouting, banging on any and everything they can. Their shouts are louder. Piercing.

" _Why should I listen to you?"_

" _Fuck you! You cock sucking piece of shit, I will fucking rip you apart!"_

" _Walker was beside him! Walker followed him! He went- he went to that place-"_

" _Down down down down, he went down. Down into our nightmares."_

" _Kill him!"_

Trager must have noticed the crowd's aggression for he is steadily backing towards them. The doctor raises his arms and asks about Miles again, eliciting more shouts.

"Eddie, where are you going to go?" Waylon asks anxiously, voice catching in his throat for a second longer than he wished. It is strange, this feeling simmering inside that has Waylon yearning for Eddie's attention - all of it; this sensation that has his stomach churning and palms sweating. He can feel the adrenaline building from his toes up, plucking his nerves and making him bounce a little when he shifts to claim Eddie's gaze. Brilliant, bloodstained blue stare back at him.

" _Kill them! Kill them all!"_

" _Go down, down down down into our nightmares. Down to where the Walrider li-"_

" _Kill them! Kill them!"_

"Buddy," Trager says, bumping into Waylon and Eddie as he comes to stand by their side. The variants' advancements are no longer subtle. They creep out from the corners of the yard and bunch into groups, some already picking fights while others join in blood thirst. Their shouts fill the air, booming over the cry of crows, covering the sun's light with bitter darkness.

Waylon can feel his flight instinct bubbling to the surface. It has kept him alive this long, it will continue to keep him alive. Absentmindedly he reaches into his pocket to grab a battery and almost panics when he feels none. How long has it been since he's had his camera? Did Eddie take it away from him? Now that he's noticed it he feels naked and defenseless, but the nearing yells are enough to push those thoughts to the back of his mind.

"We'll get her out of here," he hears Trager say to Eddie as they begin heading to the fence. Eddie is pushing Waylon by his shoulder, a grip that is harsh enough to make sure that he is actually moving. The knife is held higher in the air, and Trager's shears are branded by his side.

Waylon tries to fight against the push, but Eddie refuses to budge. When he looks at Waylon again his determination is fierce. "Darling, I need you to listen carefully."

"Eddie I don't-"

"No, I need you to _listen._ Once you go through that fence you need to run towards the church, quickly." Eddie glances over his shoulder and frowns, turning back to Waylon with a sterner expression. His eyes are hard, cheeks hollow. The blisters and scars on his cheek are ugly. "Trager and I will meet you there. You have to go without worry, dear. We will be safe."

Lies. He's lying. Balling his hands into fists, Waylon struggles to not punch Eddie in the face. "There's too many of them," he says – no, shouts – and ignores the way Trager seems so amused by their display. Bastard. It's his damn fault that they're in this situation. He wants to turn his fists to Trager, perhaps snatch Eddie's knife while it is unguarded and slit Trager's throat. He and Eddie can escape together, it's possible, they can do it. Trager should stay. Trager should wait. Trager should-

" _Into our nightmares he took Hope's body- down down down! He haunts our dreams-"_

"Waylon _now!_ "

He is pushed and shoved forward by alien hands, torn from Eddie before he could convince them to go together. There is no time to pause, no time to shake the dread building in his stomach as the crowds of variants converge on each other. His movements are unconscious; his thoughts are irrelevant as his feet take him in a familiar grasp of motion. Run. The last he sees of Eddie is marked by blood and the precise aim of a knife.

He turns his focus ahead; bodies run over each other as limbs fly and hits are taken. Waylon vaults over a pile of downed, bloody messes and just barely avoids being smacked in the face by a wooden plank. His is filled with the sounds of maniacal laughter and screams of agony. Some are mourning. Some are cheering. He allows the chaotic melody to take over his senses and lead him to the gap in the fence. Quickly, he flees from the fight and squeezes past two variants. By the time he makes it through the hole, Waylon is sure that he left his heart and lungs 100 feet behind.

* * *

The flames and empty hallways are disquieting. He avoids the church at all costs, recognizing how the smoke is spreading and the heat is rising; the fire is spreading rapidly, ready to consume the entire asylum. He wishes it could.

Each step leaves his feet aching painfully, but the soreness is rather dull compared to the solemn air that has merged itself with his being. His very thoughts are traced with darkness, and if he could engender an entity that would represent his mind Waylon believes that it would be a manifestation of shadows. Shadows – he clings to them. The sunlight is too bright, and if it is dark then that means the fire is a good distance away. Not to say that it is necessarily dark anymore; most of the rooms are lit by ceiling lights and lamps. It would be smart to stay in a room or hall that was close enough to the church but not actually in it – like the church's entrance, since Trager and Eddie will most likely come from inside the building – yet Waylon cannot bring himself to stop walking.

He drags his hand along the wall until he comes to an elevator shaft. Curious, Waylon peers down the hall to make sure that no one is around before stepping closer to the elevator. A green light flashes periodically and there is set of keys still in hole. How long it has been in there, he does not know, but something is telling him that it was used recently. So peculiar, Waylon steps into the elevator without much thought and twist the key. He wants to take it out for inspection, or to keep, but his actions are thoughtless and he is jolted by the groan of the shaft. Before he can stop it, the elevator's gates are closing and he is being carried down into the earth.

When one dies, does he actually see his life flash before his eyes? He watches as the floors past in quick succession. The colors blend into blues and yellows, greys and reds thrown into a melting pot. Soon, the vibrant reds and yellows shift into silver, blue, and white. It is cooler here, Waylon notes, and the air is sharper. Fresh, as if he were standing outside instead of an elevator somewhere underground. The machine stops with a _whoosh_ of air, green light blinking, and after a moment the gates open to expose a large corridor of walls that look like ice – or white rock.

Astonished, Waylon takes in the view and carefully steps out of the elevator. He lands on cold tiles, but in the next step he hits something solid. Solid, and fleshy.

His heart pounds in his ear. Waylon swallows, and lowers his gaze to the floor. "Wha-?"

A man, laying in the mist of black webs and ghostly fog, cowers under Waylon's heel. He groans, fingers wrapping around Waylon's ankle, and then in a weak, rasp of a voice he whispers, _"Help…me…"_


	13. Beast of Shadows

The webs are less solid and more misty as they coil and bend around Waylon's ankle. His heartbeat quickens and an involuntary shudder rides his spine. The webs are thin and thread-like, as fragile and individual as a spider's. However, a spider's silk is also strong and here, curling up his ankle and calf, Waylon can sense the mist's strength and warning. He tries to pull his foot back but the being below him groans something throaty and the webs contract.

 _"Ego sum dolore,"_ it moans and the black mist surrounding him seems to shift. Although he cannot see behind the abysmal darkness, Waylon _knows_ that it is watching him, staring beyond his eyes and pleading into his soul. It is pulling him closer with an almost gravitational tug. Waylon glances over his shoulder to see that he is indeed about a foot farther into the hallway than he was before.

Panic beginning to simmer in the pit of his stomach and chest, Waylon tries once more to take back his foot but to no avail. _"Adivua,"_ it groans again. The being twists what Waylon suspects to be its head and crawls forward, moving onto its knees as the black mist curls and folds. Its body jerks as it moves and elicits a slippery, almost popping noise – it is not unlike the wet sound of slipping a joint back in place. The sight is sickening, but Waylon is transfixed, staring with wide eyes as its shape begins to solidify and it is no longer a black mass with as arm and fingers.

The webs recoil and the mist slink back into the larger mass. In a matter of seconds the being is similar to a shadow or silhouette, and if it was not for its definite and three dimensional shape Waylon could have fooled himself into believing that it was indeed a shadow. But it is not, and the fingers wrapped around his ankle are much more solid and cold; the chill is so cold its burning his skin in the same manner that frostbite would. No longer able to hold the cry in, Waylon yelps and jerks back, but the being seems to be taken by surprise. It flinches, giving Waylon enough leverage to yank his foot from its hold and back away.

He could run, if he'd just turn around and do it. Do it. Flee. Allow that burning sensation in his gut to lead him back up the elevator and to relative 'safety.' His mind screams for him to run, but his body is frozen. Like a deer caught in headlights Waylon stares at the being, and it stares back. With each passing second its figure becomes more tangible until it is firm and in the form of a man. Wrinkles and folds wrap around his torso and compress until they take the semblance of clothing. A jacket and a collared shirt. Waylon glances at its hand and sees one that is stunted. He slides his foot back, prepared to turn away and sprint back to safety, but then suddenly the being before his changes.

 _"I need…"_ it – he whispers. His voice is raspy as if being tested after a long time of non-use. The dark mist covering him recedes into his skin and clothing, steadily revealing tanned skin and dusty clothing stained with dried blood. His ears appear first as the mists pulls centripetally. Soon, the only hint that he was ever a being of darkness is the cloud of black mist refusing to hide behind his eyes. It swarms around his iris, leaving only a thin area of white. His cheeks are sunken and the skin around his eyes look hollow; the exhausted look on his face rivals the one Waylon knows to be on his own. Although a sense of warning and alert has fallen on Waylon, the urge to flee is no longer as strong. He drags his foot forward to stand tall, although he is still shorter than the strange man, and balls his hands into fists to hide their trembling.

Hardening his stare as to not appear as delicate as he feels, Waylon swallows thickly and asks, "Who are you? Or what…what are you?" Anxiety spikes and his knees try to buckle. Waylon hides his shudder with a shift in stance. "Why were you just a black ball of webs a minute ago?" His voice rises as he speaks. Fear grips him tightly the more he thinks about the man's transformation, the more he questions why he is even here and not gone somewhere. Like cracked glass that has taken one too many blows, he begins to shatter and emotions kept in check start to pour forth. Anger, frustration, terror.

Fear, so much fear.

He can't help how his words escape in a shout. "Why are you just staring at me? I asked you a question, you need to answer me!" Waylon gestures in front of him at the man and quickly brings his arm back in, cautious of touching it. "What is your name?" he shouts. "What is your _name?_ You ask me for – for help, but you can't speak? What is wrong with you? Why won't you answer me?" He frowns and shakes his head, now pacing around the man.

Silence has captured him and it causes Waylon's rage to boil. The silent, almost disdainful and pitying expression on the other's face pricks his skin. Haunting, onyx eyes watch him closely. Waylon's thoughts are in a haze, and each passing second only increases his frustration. He doesn't _understand_ this silent being, just like he doesn't understand why he is stuck in this damned place. Where was Eddie? Why did he allow Trager to be with them? It was all Trager's fault – it's the second time he's thought this, but this time his emotions are running wild. Because Trager put him in this situation; Trager found him when he was trying to escape and sealed in his fate. To be trapped here until either Eddie or some freak ends his life.

Waylon's fist is slamming into the man's face without him realizing it, but the burst of energy excites his pounding heart and he refuses to reign in his blows even after his recognizes his actions.

Punch after punch, the being takes them like a ragdoll or sand bag, absorbing it effortlessly. He staggers without a groan, and Waylon takes the opportunity to shove him into a nearby wall with his shoulder and drag him down to the floor. Crimson splatters on to the pristine tile, but it is not from the man. Waylon cocks back his right fist and eyes the cut between his knuckles for half a second before bringing it down on the lifeless man again. He grits his teeth, annoyed with the lack of pain, and moves to stomping down on the man's gut. The man gasps and clutches Waylon's foot – another finger is missing, making Waylon's stomach churn – but the hold is too weak to keep him from doing it again.

How much time has passed, Waylon does not know. It could have been five, or ten, or maybe even two, but it is of little concern. However, his hits begin to weaken and he can no longer draw strength from past aggressions. Waylon sucks in air through an open mouth, flicking his tongue out to wet his lips, and tries to land another punch but his fist breaks halfway through and he ends of trailing fingers down the man's jacket. His legs tremble as a warning before giving out, and Waylon has to press his body against the wall to keep from crashing to the floor. Although, effort takes too much strength and he allows himself to slowly slide to sit beside the man.

No bruises, scratches, or any sign of abuse show on the man except for tears in his clothing and the slight, unnatural ruffle in his jacket and hair. Waylon drags his palm up his face and then opens his eyes to see black ones staring at him. The man's lips part as if he wanted to speak, but he quickly closes them and moves to stand. His movements are unnatural, suggesting supernatural grace and hurry. When he walks away Waylon notices the outline of black mist over his form, and he imagines that if it was white then the man would seem almost angelic. But thinking that angels could reside in a place like this is crazy; demons are much more fitting.

By the time the man comes back Waylon has settled into his space on the floor. He was too tired to move, and, surprisingly, did not feel any harm coming from the man. He felt nothing, and for now nothing will suffice.

The man clears his throat to alert Waylon of his presence, and when Waylon turns to look at him he is met with a roll of gauze and a safety pin. At first he just stares at it, and then has to snatch the items when they are practically shoved into his lap. "Thank you?" he says and drags out the 'you' to emphasize his confusion. The man shrugs – or at least Waylon thinks he shrugged – and goes to stand against the opposite wall. It isn't until he is boring into Waylon's soul that Waylon finally notices the small puddle of blood growing on his thigh where his cut knuckles rest.

"Oh!" Waylon exclaims and quickly unrolls some of the gauze, proceeding to wrap and secure his hand. As he bandages himself he can feel the being staring, almost fiercely, and it unnerves him. Yes, the act was generous, but should he take it as a gesture of mutuality? Whoever – whatever – this man is must have a motive, and just the thought is sinister enough.

And he is trying to subtly put some distance between them when a hoarse voice from above says, "Are you…a patient?"

Waylon has to stop his eyebrows from rising in surprise. An awkward silence passes over them before he answers. "No. I've been trapped here ever since the riots started." Pressing his back against the wall and using his unwounded hand for balance, Waylon slides to a stand. He cocks his head to the side. "You are?"

"I was told to come here," the man answers. He shifts slightly, exchanging his weight from one hip to the next, and folds his arm over his chest. Although his persona is that of a normal human his eyes still gleam with darkness and mist. As for his voice, it is deep in an almost soothing way; unnatural, reminding Waylon of TV programs about ghosts and haunting. In the back of his mind he cannot ignore the knowledge that this man is something supernatural, but for now he has to force himself not to dwell on it.

The man shakes his head. "So many deranged fucks… I shouldn't have come here. But my curiosity got the best of me, like a junky, and I came as fast as I could. That bastard," he spits, "some computer nerd working with Murkoff dragged me here. Realized the pile of shit he was in and called for help. I don't even remember," his voice cracks as Waylon's heart race, and the devastation in the man's tone only breaks the surface of what Waylon is feeling. "How long have I even been here?"

"Three days," Waylon says quickly, mentally placing every event in order and guessing at the time. It gives him something to focus on instead of the cold sweat trailing down his back. "Or four, maybe two if I'm making things happen too slowly but three sounds right. Everything happened so quickly."

The man nods, and then eyes Waylon suspiciously. He lifts a finger as if to point. "You said you were trapped, but why were you here in the first place? No one just walks into an asylum for the fun of it."

"I was called here too."

"By who?"

"He didn't send a name."

The man seems to consider this for a few strenuous seconds before taking Waylon's answers without question. But the doubt is still in the air, and Waylon can't make his next move unless he knows who this being is.

"What is your name?" he asks again, however, with less anger and more command. Perhaps it is because he is fully transformed, for this time there isn't a fight. In that cold, soothing voice that sparks a flame of memory in Waylon's mind, the man breathes his name.

* * *

He has memorized these halls before, outlined the walls with his hands and counted the amount of steps it took to reach each and every exit. He has visited one or two laboratories simply to figure out what the heck they were doing to the patients they brought in, and had been kicked out after about two or three minutes of interrogating the doctors. The technical room through those double doors? He knows it like the back of his hand. Has sat and worked it in plenty of times; leg trembling, fingers flying across the keyboard, eyes darting to the door in paranoia.

And the haunted man beside him? Miles Upshur ?

Yeah, that's familiar too.

Waylon balances the badly bruised video camera in his palms, quietly examining the cracked lens and blood crusted fingerprints. This is also familiar, the weight of a camera in his hands and the festering bubble of anxiety and alarm curling in his gut. His fingertips tingle when he turns the camcorder and flips open the screen to reveal a thick smear of dried blood right down the middle of it. The unsettling fact is how easily Waylon flicks his tongue over his thumb and rubs the blood away.

"It should still work," Miles says from the doorway and Waylon almost jumps out of skin from surprise. He had forgotten that Miles was still with him, too dazed with memory and curiosity. The man had refused to come into the hallway leading the Morphogenic Engine by vehemently shaking his head and clawing one nail into his wrist. The dark aura that had faded started to appear again, and that was when Waylon surrendered and just told him to stay at the doorway. He didn't want to go in there alone either, not when the sight of such an atrocity brought back flashes of black and white messages and Andrew, but Miles said that he had something important in there – something crucial – and he needed it back.

So here is Waylon now, pressing a little too harshly on the camera's "on" button and impatiently waiting for it to turn on. The screen flashes white for half a second before turning off. It takes much effort to not throw damn thing on the floor and suggest just retrieving his from Eddie – Waylon bites his lip. He tries turning it on again, this time with more care and hope.

He hears Miles mumble something before saying, "It might need batteries."

"That's obvious," Waylon snaps a tad harsher than intended but lacks the energy to apologize. He jams his thumb into the button while a stale silence passes over them. And then Miles is asking, "If so, then why are you still trying to turn it on?"

"Because –" he starts and then stops. Through the glass panel he spots something glittering in the dim, overhead light, small and cylindrical and coming straight from his memory. A godsend, he thinks as another round of shapes and colors blur his vision and drum against his temple. He grips the camera tightly until the daze passes, and then glances over his shoulder at Miles. "It's an act faith," he says, words coming straight from the mouth of a madman and sliding off his tongue too fairly. But he pushes the recollection to the back of his mind as actively tries not to focus on the _swish_ of the automatic doors, or the cool, stale air that immediately rushes up his nostrils and in his mouth.

The laboratory smells of must and tastes like dust, if the small inhale that Waylon accidentally takes is reliable. Foolishly, he tries to hold his breath as he stares down at his feet and rushes towards the desk.

He can still hear the screams as clear as day. _Rape! Rape!_ They cry and yell and repeat, wrapping around Waylon's mind and singing into his eardrums. _Somebody help me! Somebody –_ he snatches the battery off of the table and swallows, choking on the air hauled in his lungs, trying to fight the voices invading his thoughts – _you! I know you can stop this! You have to help me!"_

_Whap, whap, whap!_

By the time he's back in the hallway Waylon is panting and leaning over his knees for balance, sweaty fingers curled over the battery tightly and camcorder pressed against his ribs. Miles is saying something from afar (is he still at the doorway?) but the words are lost on him; all he can hear is his own heavy breathing and the thunderous beat of his heart. He stands there a while longer, and soon a firm hand is on his back and ushering him through the doors and into the open space that leads to the elevator. He glances to his side and immediately sees a dead security officer slumped over the wooden desk.

"What happened in there?" Miles' voice is deeper, resembling the crude, raspy one during his transformation. His hand is still on Waylon's back and the pressure chills his spine. It's a wonder how Miles can be so cold, but then what should Waylon suspect from a possessed man? The camera fumbles out of his hands but Miles catches it before it can hit the ground and possibly destroy the entire lens. While straightening up he effortlessly takes the battery out of Waylon's hand and puts it in the camera, and this time when he repeats his question Waylon is ready to answer.

"I was just in shock, mostly. They never put me in the engine, but I was a…guinea pig for their experiments," he says, a shudder running through him at the memory. The flashes of light, the organic forms and abstract objects projected on the wall, and the clammy, gloved fingers that slapped and caressed him. Andrew was the worst of it all, but he does not take away from the torture of the hallucinations and images.

He feels Miles' pace slow and has to stop walking so that they are side by side again. Camera open, the other man presses the button to turn it on and stares blankly as the screen lights and stays on. He taps another button and Waylon's heart skips when he sees the world change to blinding white and lime green. It is too bright to have thermal on, so Miles turns it off, along with the camera as a whole and bows his head so that he can drape it around his neck. And Waylon, he is mesmerized by the peculiar display, understanding the necessity of having evidence but not how it will be received – or how anyone else will find it, especially if they don't make it out alive-

He shakes his head and scratches his arm. Those thoughts are forbidden. If he speaks it then it will come to pass, so he has to keep quiet. Does the same go for his thoughts? He isn't sure how the superstition goes, but never the less he doesn't want to stay in that dark, depressing place.

The pair stops in front of the elevator where they first met, and Waylon can't help the slight flush that spreads on his cheeks. He found Miles by stepping on him, and even though he was just a mass of webs and matter it is still embarrassing. Although, Miles seems not to think of their encounter and heads straight for the flashing green button, and the realization burns something within Waylon that has his anxiety spiking.

So at the very last second he jerks forward and wraps his hand around Mile's wrist, stopping him right before he called for the elevator. Despite the contact's brevity, Miles instantly yanked his hand back, the man's stare is borderline lethal.

"What are you doing?" he asks, more so snaps, and whatever request that was on Waylon's tongue immediately shatters. He opens his mouth and gapes like a fish out of water, explanations forming and then dissipating right after. Annoyed, Miles says, "We have what we need, Waylon. I didn't tell you to get this damned camera just so we can sit and watch my misery together. We have to _leave._ " He goes for the elevator again but Waylon grabs his shoulder to stop him, pulling it back so that his body turns.

 _"Park,"_ Miles snarls and shoves the younger man aside. There are inklings of mist now, black and sneaking out from behind Miles to wrap around his neck and arms. His eyes flare with darkness, and the pattern of mists matches the swirl of fear coiling in Waylon. But he can't let Miles call for the elevator. Because there are other exits, exits in the laboratory that every scientist and engineer used to avoid the asylum. It's quicker, and easier, and if he wasn't so distraught earlier he would have told Miles.

But he also can't go back up to the asylum. He can't go, because up there he only knows one exit – only has one exit. And if he goes up there, then he'll be pulled back into the hysteria and have to face… he'll have to face….

There's the sound of shutters closing and gears turning, and then green button on the wall begins to flash.

He hears the elevator moving, coming, arriving for his demise but he can no longer see Miles, can no longer see the white, icy walls or the emerald light. He hears a ticking that reminds him of locusts, swarms upon swarms of insects rushing to claim a land and destroy it. But the swarm is pitch black, and there's an outline of ghoulish muscles and a distinctly familiar face.

But by the time the shutters open and the swarm stills, Waylon is already unconscious.


	14. Shadows of Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter so far

"Trager and I will meet you there. You have to go without worry, dear. We will be safe," he says, guaranteeing a promise that feels impossible to keep.

A raw throat leaves his voice sounding scratched; a chill creeps along his spine and sends his gut plummeting. The feeling of dread is vicious, like a tornado sweeping aside his insides and leaving devastation in its wake. Eddie looks at her - catches her stare and truly _looks_ at her - and her face reflects the storm brewing within.

Terror lies behind the contortion of her expression; she wants to punch him, to fight tooth and nail until he gives and allow her to stay. "There're too many of them," Waylon has to shout in order to be heard over the crowd, and her voice cracks halfway through it. So desperate, it's all so clear on her face and it makes something in him _break._

Her flushed cheeks are ravishing, he notes though his thoughts are flowing in rapid succession. Eddie presses closer to her while scanning the area, noting the variants' speed and proximity – too close for comfort, it's hard to breathe, and they're surrounded. Trager stands a bit apart from them bearing a smug expression that irks Eddie to no end. Bastard. But his attention strays from the doctor after about a second and he goes back to surveying his love.

Eddie cannot deny the aesthetic and silly romantic air to their situation. Internally, he compliments all of Waylon's features, wasting no time to dwell in order to imprint the entire image in his head. He hears the rioting all around him but in this moment his course of action seems so simple. Capture his love, his darling Waylon, and then set her free. Eddie's heart skips as he recognizes this, realizing that there are many paths to take but they will all lead to similar endings. The conclusion is the same – the end does not justify the means. Waylon is searching for answers in his eyes but he suspects that they are too dark to decipher. If she keeps staring she will sooner or later drown in them, and he is likely to perish in hers.

How can she look so beautiful in the mist of fear? A deep yearning pulls at his chest and all he desires is to hug her close and protect her, take her warmth and claim it as his own. If only he could take her to a place far from here, build her a home and give her as many children as she desires. They could be happy together – they could stay _alive_ together. Her eyes are stunning as she parts her alluring lips to speak, and in this moment Eddie deeply wishes to pull her forward and lay their lips together in a fierce kiss.

Instead, he turns Waylon by her shoulders and allow Trager to shove her away until she is sprinting on her own, small form slipping past the variants mostly unscathed. Trager shouts in excitement and slaps his arm, twirling his bone shears with his other hand while Eddie follows Waylon's movement until she disappears. It pains him to see her leave; yet, knowing that she is safe removes the heavy weight of dread set on his shoulders. And he feels it too, as if the notion isn't figurative and is actually literal.

 _No matter,_ Eddie thinks as he lifts the knife in defense, ready for the first wave of variants to attack. Waylon will be safe until he can find her. And if he doesn't make it…well, at least he died fighting for the one he loves.

" _Kill them!"_

The fight is a dance of blurred limbs and fire-spitting agony. His swings are precise, aiming for the quickest and easiest kill so he can move on to the next one. Go for the face, stab them in the jugular, hit hard and fast until they are using each other for balance. Keep moving – _move, move, move_ – so the variants never know where to look. Trager yanks Eddie to him a split second before a splintered plank of wood could be barreled down on him. Their glance is brief in tense appreciation before both turn on Eddie's attacker and stab him without second thought, Trager's shears in his gut while Eddie's knife is splitting his eye. The pair pull away with a sloppy sound.

"Eddie," he hears Trager say to his left before grunting around a variant that has decided to charge at him. The man's statue is a mountain in comparison, but immediately becomes a disadvantage when he shuffles in close range. Easily, the doctor slips under the variant's massive arm and catches the fat hanging from it with his shears. He snaps the blades closed just in time for Eddie to turn and be splashed in the face with disgustingly warm blood. Some seeps between his lips and an immense taste of iron cloud his senses.

Momentarily unaware of his surroundings, Eddie doesn't catch the two variants moving to restrain him until one is grabbing a fistful of hair and the other is being punched in the face by Trager. He jerks back, not out of it, a move the pale man wasn't expecting, and slams the top of his head into the variant's chin. A feral howl leaves the variant before it is replaced with a cry of pain and a gurgle, suddenly being strung up in the air by a sharp blade and strong arm. Eddie throws him to the ground and stomps on his chest for good measure.

The crowd is endless, creature after creature moving in to have their turn at the two. Some huddle in wide ovals to watch, while most either pick fights with each other or sprint in an attempt to catch Trager or Eddie off guard. Their screams are deafening, a torrent of broken words and chants resounding through the courtyard and spiraling up into the air. Trager calls Eddie again but he isn't sure where the voice is coming from. Time does not allow him to carefully target the doctor, and the sharp sting of something nipping his collar pulls him back to the fight. He was on the verge of giving up on looking for Trager when familiar fingers curl around his bicep and pull his backwards.

The next time Trager speaks, warm breath tickles Eddie's ear. "Over on that wall, behind me, there's a ladder. It's red. Look at it." Trager shoves Eddie behind him and jerks his head towards the brick wall. "See it?"

"Yes," Eddie says after spotting the camouflaged ladder. It leans against the high wall carefully, looking about stable enough to support a leaf. The red paint on the ladder matches the rusted brick, and if he hadn't known what he was looking for Eddie isn't sure that he would have found it so easily; although, the ladder is not all that grabs his attention. Variants crowd around it, too, but the groups are scattered and leave an open path that beelines straight to the ladder. It's narrow and would be a tight squeeze, but a short glimpse at Trager tells Eddie that his idea is not far-fetched.

It's insane.

They move quickly, fending off as many attackers as they can, but the punches and stabs come is a flurry that is hard to keep up with. While Eddie is lifting his arm to block a punch to his face, another variant comes and kicks him right in the side, knocking wind out of his lungs and causing him to stumble to the right. He gasps for air, vision crossing for a couple seconds before he blinks and tries to align the world. Screams ring in his ears, laughter sounds above it all, and Trager's stunted words are shouting at him to "Hurry the _fuck_ up."

He obeys with a grunt, and accidentally cut his finger when he tried to holster his knife. They fight through another wave of amused variants before the ladder is finally within reach. Trager sprints to it – his legs wobble and his breathing is loud, more like hiccups – and shakes the base of the ladder. It wobbles, but doesn't teeter to the side so he twirls the shears into their place at his side and uses both of his hands to climb. Eddie is right behind him now, following the doctor closely. Eddie's hands replace Trager's feet as they climb, and he avoids looking at the ground (or directly up, for that matter).

He can still hear the variants below, cooing and shouting and making a mockery of any civility that was ever kept in the asylum. But these men were never civil, and the officials tortured them into being less than savages. Eddie feels a pang of anger in his chest and pain in his temple; his cheek feels warm but he has no free hand to scratch it. Above him, Trager's breath hitches and he curses, the word sounding like the whisper of a man on his deathbed.

"Buddy," he says quietly, only audible because of their distance over the others. "Stop moving."

Cocking his head to the side and frowning, Eddie obliges.

The air is cool up here, breezing past them lazily as if the chaos below is but a common occurrence. Which, technically, it is, yet after weeks of destruction the extreme anarchy still feels new. Fresh and revolting, it sits in the back of Eddie's mind when the silence stretches for far too long. His palms feel sweaty around the rusted metal, and the cut on his smallest finger bleeds gently. He has the urge to wipe it off but believes that if he lets go he will fall, so he settles for ignoring the thin trail. Another casual gust of wind wrap around him, and Eddie feels the question on his lips build until it becomes unbearable. He is opening his mouth to ask it when he notices the gentle shift of his feet.

They moved, to the right, without him actually moving. Eddie tightens his grip around the bar and glances down at his feet. They are still, one foot above the other since he stopped mid-climb. A moment of passes before the shift happens again, this time he feels his entire body move. And in the next, he lurches backward and then forward, banging his forehead against the bar.

"They're shaking us!" Trager shouts but Eddie can already hear those vile degenerates cat-calling them. He loops his arms through the bars until he is holding on by his elbows. The variants howl in laughter before shaking the ladder again, trying to jerk it in multiple directions at once which causes the ladder to wobble and slide on the grass. The end of the ladder taps the wall.

"We have to go!" Eddie yells and slaps the man's heel to send the message. He catches a glimpse of Trager nodding but hits his foot again until it moves.

Eddie's heart pounds in urgency, gaze dropping to the courtyard and noting how the ladder is giving more easily to the variants now. It lurches left and right, backwards and forwards, meanwhile sliding further down the grass. They are climbing at an angle now that the top of the ladder has lowered. Trager curses again when the ladder wobbles and he misses the step. His foot skids off the bar and slips through the hole, causing his pelvis to slam against the sides of the ladder. The variants must have noticed this, for their shoves increase in ferocity and the ladder actually creaks.

Eddie holds Trager by the thigh and tries to lift him from the hole. "They're going to knock this thing down, Trager."

"I fucking know that."

"Then get out of there before they do," Eddie growls and shoves Trager's thigh harshly. The doctor kicks back pathetically, probably aiming to hit Eddie, before pulling himself up by the arms and swinging out of the gap. They waste no time moving once Trager is out, Eddie viciously noting every tremble and waver from the ladder. Not too far ahead of them is a window, closed and to the side but close enough for them to open and slink inside if they moved fast enough.

It's difficult to remain balanced, but soon they are at the top of the ladder, Eddie holding on to Trager with one hand as the man tries to pull the window open. It refuses to give for far too long, coming down on Trager's fingers whenever he found leverage and making him repeat the process. Eddie is anxious, a cloud of doubt and distaste hovering over his senses as the ladder slowly slides further from the wall, steepness dropping to the point where they are climbing like monkeys on all fours.

"Trager-"

The window snaps open and Trager swats at Eddie's hand. "Opened. I'm going in," he says.

He shuffles from the ladder to the window and starts to move inside when the ladder makes an unexpected jolt down the wall. His chin hits the window sill, slamming Trager's mouth closed and the _crack_ that follows sends a chill down Eddie's spine.

Silence is suffocating, but Eddie is too wary to break it. Instead, he places his hand on Trager's back. "Are you…?" He holds his breath until the body gives a shudder and Trager growls deep in his throat. Eddie recoils, heart back to thumping loudly, and watches as Trager moves his jaw as he crawls inside the building.

He follows Trager close behind, not testing his luck with how unstable the ladder - along with its aggressors - is. He is reminded of Columbus discovering the New World when he grabs onto the window sill and curls his fingers around it for a better grip. The feeling is exhilarating, grounding, and relieving. It is easier to breathe once his head is inside, and when he kicks off the ladder, sending it falling to the ground, and pulls his legs through the window the knot in gut loosens immensely.

Eddie allows himself a moment to breathe on the floor as Trager closes the window. They are in one of the Catholic dorms; he can tell from the array of rotated crosses on the wall and the perfectly made twin beds on either side of them. The only other set of bedrooms in the asylum are for the staff that had to stay here, and Eddie still isn't sure where those are located.

Trager maneuvers past him and sighs loudly, the stretch making his jaw crack again. He looks at Eddie with a wild gaze. "Any bruises?"

Eddie's pinky stings and he flexes it absentmindedly. His scalp aches, and now that he thinks about it there's a dull soreness on every part of his body; although, he doesn't spot any blood or concerning marks. Eddie uses the edge of the bed to help him stand as he says, "A couple here and there but nothing serious. How's your jaw?"

"Shit," Trager spits and frowns as he cups his chin. The action pulls his skin and reveals a diagonal cut running from the corner of his mouth to somewhere under his hand; blood has already coagulated there.

Chancing a glance out of the window, Eddie sees the variants scatter into individual groups again, similar to how they were before he and Trager had entered the courtyard. They're still yelling, but the volume has lowered.

Whores. Filthy, dirty, _disgusting_ whores. Eddie's fist clench at his side and he grits his teeth, beginning to feel the burn of anger swell in his chest. His body aches, pain coursing through him; it radiates in some spots and simmers in others. He notes some of their faces and presses it into his memory for the next time he sees them. Oh, if he could have them to himself, they would regret ever trying to touch him or Trager. Or his darling.

There's an ache in his chest that isn't a result of pain. It rests low and hollow, empty, and he swallows thickly in an attempt to rid himself of the feeling. His darling; in the time of her departure he had almost forgotten about her, so concerned with his own safety. Is she safe? Did she make it to the church? Eddie looks across the courtyard to the church and sees the orange light of flames licking and shattering windows.

"Where are you-" Trager starts when Eddie storms past him and out the door.

Eddie doesn't slow down when he answers, "Waylon," and feels a bit of gratefulness when he hears Trager's footsteps trailing behind him.

* * *

"Have you kissed her yet?"

Eddie's cheeks warm; however, he's going to blame it on the smoke rising high on the ceiling. The smoke thickens as they near the church, burning their lungs and restricting air to the point where Eddie advised crouching so they could see and breathe easier. His clothes stick to him uncomfortably and he's drenched in sweat. Layers drip down his back and over his eyes, warm against hot skin. He would take off his vest and possibly his shirt, but that would slow him down and every second on the clock counts.

They turn a corner and is met with a low wall of flames burning brightly and creeping up the wall. Eddie doesn't speak until they've stepped over it. "Just the thought makes my heart flutter, but she is shy, and if I force myself upon her too quickly," he pauses, "she will…run away."

"Again."

"Again," Eddie nods.

Trager shakes his head. "You'll be waiting for an eternity then, my friend. Isaac recognized this."

"Who is Isaac?"

"Newton…" Trager answers and gives Eddie an incredulous look, but how could Eddie be blamed for not knowing who someone was when the bastard didn't think to mention his last name? He keeps his mouth shut though and waits for the doctor to continue. "First Law of Motion, Gluskin: an object at rest will stay at rest."

A window breaks somewhere behind them and the pair walk faster. Here, the hallway feels like Hell. Fire stretches all around them, burning from the ceiling and dropping little chips of wood like kindling over their shoulders. Just for protection (that's the excuse he's giving), Eddie strips out of his vest and holds it over his head. In his peripheral he can see Trager eyeing him with a smirk as if the fire is child's play and he's been through worse.

A quick glance at the stitches along the width of Trager's abdomen makes him rethink.

"What's your point?" he prompts once they're clear of most of the fire. The church's doors have been burned down, leaving it open to expel mushroom clouds of grey smoke and copious heat. Eddie wraps the vest around his mouth and nose in an attempt to filter the air.

Trager puts his hand over his nose. "My point is that your dear Waylon will stay at rest until an outside force is acted upon her."

"She will run," Eddie argues.

"She is afraid and lost and alone. She has you, only you, and the only way she'll recognize this is if you woo her." Trager kicks away a burning piece of something dark and grimaces immediately after. "You're like a lion, Gluskin. You can't lure in a gazelle if you make your intentions known."

"But she loves me and knows that we will marry soon. If I have to wait until after our marriage to claim her lips, then I will. I," something flashes in front of him and he narrows his eyes to peer through the smoke. The flashing light is green. "I want to avoid scaring her away again. Love is not something that I expect you to understand, Trager-"

Trager scoffs. "Offensive."

"But I must not tempt losing her again. She has… she is a dream, and I do not desire waking up."

They come to an elevator and stop there, Trager's curiosity perking faster than Eddie's and leading him inside. He inspects the small space by patting the walls and staring at the flashing light. A key is already turned in the keyhole.

"Do you think it still works?" Eddie asks as he steps inside, grateful for the lack of smoke in it. It must have been used recently.

Trager cracks his jaw as he runs his fingers along the single floor option. "Looks like it. Think someone has been in here recently?"

"Sure," Eddie says.

With a grin and glint in his eye far too mischievous to be good, Trager presses the green button and steps back as the metal gates close. "How about we go say hi to them, then?" he practically laughs before nudging Eddie's side with his elbow. "You said you didn't want to wake up."

It's not a question. Eddie remains quiet.

Trager clasps his hands behind his back and lifts his chin, looking at Eddie from the corner of his eye. His voice is low when he says, "Don't wait for it then."

_Don't._

_Wait._

The elevator jolts to a sudden stop, jerking the two forward. Eddie braces himself against the wall and groans, clenching his eyes shut because _something_ is making them burn. As if hundreds of locusts were swarming the elevator, a roaring buzz wraps around them. He waves his arms to swat at them yet hits nothing. The insects evade him, but the longer he tries to fight them off the more confusing the buzzing becomes. Because he's not hitting _anything._ There's nothing but air; cold air, moving air, air that twists and turns and makes his skin prickle.

With great effort he manages to force his eyes open and see nothing but blackness. The dark is shifting, waving past him and contorting into semi-fluid forms. It is like mist. He cannot see or feel Trager and the realization strikes him hard.

Where is he? What is this? Eddie opens his mouth but no sound leaves his throat. He can't breathe, and the pressure building in his lungs is starting to suffocate him. He grabs blindly and the mist moves around him. He's floating, somehow floating although his feet are clearly on the ground. The floor is solid, right? It's not moving, the air around him is. He is solid, isn't he? Sturdy, still, solid – a wave of lightheadedness washes over him and he feels that he is on the verge of passing out.

His eyes close despite his efforts, and the ground beneath him slips away.

The Engine doesn't have any visuals today?

They must want him to dream – _no, rape! Don't make me! Don't make me stop it NO –_ Eddie's body twitches.

" _What did your father make you do, Mr. Gluskin?"_

" _Were you a good boy for him, Mr. Gluskin?"_

" _Can you show us what he did to you, Mr. Glus-"_

_Wait._

The world stops spinning, and the voices recede back into the dark, forgotten places in his mind. Eddie is slow to come to, fighting the blaring light because the darkness was much more comforting. There's a pressure on his chest, not too heavy but enough to limit how much he can breathe. It is solid, soft, and when he goes to push it off of him the thing groans and mumbles something inaudible.

Eddie's eyes shoot open and he sits up much too quickly.

Lying stretched out on his chest is Waylon, her eyebrows furrowed over closed eyes as if Eddie was interrupting her sleep (which he definitely is). An old camcorder lies at her side, and her short hair is a ruffled mess. They are on the floor of some place that reeks of déjà vu, with icy walls and the scent of chlorine bleach. Eddie wants to wake her up, he's so happy to see her, yet he lacks motivation to actually do it.

Well, maybe he should just wait for her to wake up before doing anything. With that decided, he lowers himself back to the pleasantly cool floor and closes his eyes, giving himself to the darkness that is reminiscent of mist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning in advance, the next chapter will most likely contain very explicit material. I'll make sure to put a warning about it detailing more when it is posted; however, for those who are uncomfortable with the chapter's theme I will probably post another Weddie story (albeit short).  
> Let me know if that's what you want and I'll do it :)
> 
> Also, apology for the spaced out updates. But writing "Groom's Bridal" actually helped me get out of my writer's block, ha.


	15. An Object At Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The explicit content begins after the *second* line break. If you are uncomfortable with the tag for this story (in bold), please stop reading there. Thank you

The next time Eddie comes to consciousness he is shivering and lying on his back with a familiar weight resting on his chest. They are no longer surrounded by icy walls, and the scent of chlorine has been replaced by a stale smell of death. Ceiling lights flicker, on...off...on..off. He counts the seconds between each flash of light until his head no longer feels like it's swimming, and then tests his voice by groaning.

The response is immediate. Something crashes relatively close behind him - either glass or a frail ceramic, he can't exactly place - and there is skittering across the floor. The stomp of bare feet against hardwood grows louder until the person possessing them is standing almost directly over Eddie and scoffing.

"Took you long enough."

"Where are we?" Eddie asks and moves to sit up; he stops when a sudden wave of nausea hits him. Waylon mumbles something in her sleep and curls into his left side, burrowing her head into the pit of his arm. His expression softens upon looking at her, but the confusion and aversion to their situation comes back when he raises his gaze to Trager.

The doctor's stance is typical, hands clasped behind his back and standing on the balls of his feet. He makes a show of looking around the room, smirking, before speaking. "My, you don't even recognize your own room."

Ignoring his earlier hesitation, Eddie sits up despite the spike of pain in his temples and the groan of disapproval from Waylon. The 'lights' on the ceiling is singular, now that he sees a lone bulb hanging loosely and flickering irregularly. Why the light is so bright, he does not know, but he decides that figuring out these strange occurrences can wait until his world has stopped spinning.

Gently, so as not to bother her unnecessarily, Eddie slides out from under Waylon and pushes himself off the ground.

Trager isn't lying. They are back in Eddie's workshop, standing in the same place where he first said Waylon's precious name. The memory feels extremely distant despite only happening three or four days ago. Time seems to have either slowed down exponentially or stopped at some point.

He runs his finger along the edge of his open sketch pad and lightly taps a few dress designs before placing his gaze back on Trager. The light flickers, somehow softening the doctor's features. The notion is unnerving.

"How long have Waylon and I been," Eddie glances at her, "out?"

"I'd say an hour since I woke up myself," Trager says.

"What happened back there?"

The doctor answers with silence. He averts his gaze to stare at the bundle of candles on the desk and inhales deeply.

"Trager," Eddie's voice is low, fitting the quiet, ominous atmosphere in the room. He carefully steps away from the table, eyes on Trager's body instead of his face now. The man's posture is rigid, muscles pulled taut, but his fingers flex at his side, occasionally touching his shears. "What happened?"

Trager's teeth grind loudly and the rigidity of his stance holds until he releases a breath. It seems to alleviate his muscles, Eddie notices, for the doctor is less of a statue and more of a human. Slowly, his energy begins to come back. Despite the exhaustion showing in his features, Trager's mouth twitches as if fighting a smirk and he turns on his heel to pace around the workspace.

Eddie watches this transformation in confusion; it is not unlike watching a child. One of Trager's hands toy with the handle of his shears while the other trails along the nearest available surface as he walks in wide ovals. He skips a step, smiles gleefully, and then stops long enough to lock eyes with Eddie.

Voice barely above a whisper, he coos, "He's here."

Eddie feels something in him shift. He hesitates before asking, "Who is here?"

"The _one,_ " is Trager's cryptic answer, but the person is so clear, so obvious. Wetting his bottom lip, Eddie leans back on the table with his palms against the wood. Waylon is still asleep, her beautiful mind too far away to hear or understand.

"Where?" Eddie asks.

"In the mist," Trager says, and here he starts walking again, each turn of his heel sharp and purposeful. "He was there in the elevator with us before we… He was there. And then when I woke up-"

"In the Engine?" Eddie interrupts and immediately regrets it when Trager frowns at him questionably. Eddie shakes his head. "Continue."

"Anyway, he was there when I woke up, covered in mist and webs and he didn't even seem to be alive. But buddy," Trager changes courses suddenly, jerking his body to the left and towards Eddie. Icy cold palms rest on Eddie's shoulders, shocking him, and Trager gives him a little shake, eyes wide. "He was there, alive, and I just wanted to… I need to find him again. Buddy, I can _feel_ him. Somewhere in the distant air, I can feel his presence. I can see his trail," he says, words dragging on into a murmur. His eyes are focused on the wall now. Golden candle light dances in a light sway, similar to that of a pendulum. This close, Eddie can see the thick swallow Trager takes every few seconds, as if just the thought of catching Miles makes his mouth water. Which it might as well, for all Eddie knows.

He doesn't retreat from Trager's grasp until the doctor lets go of him, and from the looks of it Eddie assumes that Trager will start pacing again. However, the man keeps walking, leaving the workroom and heading in the direction of the sewing area.

The light flickers off, emphasizing the gold, and then Eddie is jogging to be by Trager's side. "You're leaving," he states the obvious.

"He's near."

"But we don't know what happened back there. Miles might-"

Trager pulls his shears from their holster. "Miles is going to have a sweet visitor waiting for him. Don't wait for me; I'll be in heaven for a while."

Eddie's face contorts in disgust. "Pray tell when heaven will ever let you in."

"Hell, fine, purgatory isn't an option for a businessman like me. But Miles took what he couldn't have and I want to return the favor. Consider it retribution."

"Waylon is safe and asleep, you don't have to do this alone."

"I need to do this alone-"

"I won't _let_ you do this alone-"

"I don't need your permission!" Trager snaps and rounds on Eddie, glaring with the pierce of fire in his eyes. He narrows them and pulls his lips into a snarl, body rigid. "We made a deal, Gluskin. I get Miles if you get your _precious_ Waylon. You don't have to worry about her surgery-"

"I wasn't-"

"Then stop badgering me," Trager cuts him off, and this time Eddie bites his tongue. "Don't wait for me," he says in a voice far too calm for a mad man. "I'll be back in a few hours, and in the morning, Waylon will be presented to you as a gift."

The doctor's retreating form is a conclusion, one that causes Eddie to watch until it is gone as if something will change. The darkness surrounds him, engulfs his mind, body, and soul, and suddenly he feels cold. So he turns 180 degrees and buries his hands into his pocket, repeating Trager's final words like a mantra while humming a familiar tune.

In the morning, she will be a gift.

* * *

Trager's departure has left a numb, practically hollow feeling in Eddie, and the reasoning for it is unexplainable. The tea in his styrofoam cup is now lukewarm; although, it was never really hot to begin with. There is only so much heat that can be given through a sink's faucet. Concurrent with his better judgment, Eddie had deemed the floor unfit for housing his dear Waylon and moved her into their bed, drawing the sheets over her shoulders before snuggling himself at her side.

The darkness lingers in the room mockingly, bringing forth images of scenes he wanted to forget. If he stares too long into the shadows figments of the Engine come back to mind and the shapes begin to form again: squares, triangles, organic symbols meshing together to create some sort of subliminal reaction in his thoughts. So he blinks, and sips his cool drink.

The crushed leaves are supposed to be oolong, but it tastes like a generic combination of sweet mint and vegetation. It seemed like a luxury when he found it in one of the desk drawers in the lab near the security office, having about a second to snag two before that behemoth of a man found him. What was his name? Watson? Chris? Nevertheless, the creature had chased him down the stretch of a dimly lit hallway until Eddie was out of his territory, the metal infusers and sticky note still in hand.

Which leads him to where he is now, back pressed against the wall adjacent to his bed and the taste of sweetness on his tongue. He takes another sip of the drink and allows it to cloud his taste buds and whisk him away to an oriental countryside. It is difficult to capture the soft breeze and ceremonious movement in his head when he has never experienced such peace before, but that doesn't stop him from trying. He chases after the tranquility, after the gently fluttering cherry blossoms and sway of tree branches. The liquid in his mouth grows stale and he replaces it with another cool sip, shifting the image in his mind to a scene of rain. The earth's cry is a light drizzle, and behind the collection of nimbus clouds he sees bright rays of sunshine. The yellow-orange contrasts with the blue-grey, and the spectacle is breathtaking.

Eddie takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, lost in the sensations that he has created. His heartbeat slows while his body relaxes, and the sheets wrapped around him are soft and warm. He exhales, and the world does too. He inhales, and the earth stills. He is on the brink of rectifying the cup's tilt when Waylon stirs at his side and lifts her head.

A few strands of hair hang over Waylon's eyes and her skin has a flushed tint to it. Like the swirl of roses in bath water, the colors seem to the blend in a twist around her cheeks. Eddie links the peculiar scheme to the light of the candles, but the knowledge does not negate her beauty. Waylon swallows but her throat must be too dry because she grimaces immediately afterwards, so Eddie offers her his tea.

"Hi," he says in an exhale.

"Hi," she repeats before taking the cup and downing the rest of the drink. Shifting around, Waylon leans away from Eddie to place the cup on the floor and then crawls out from the sheets. They drape around her thighs and cover her from there below. Eddie frowns when he recognizes that she's still wearing the shirt that they took from a variant after Trager released her, and feels a burning desire to rip it off of her. But that might scare her, so he quells the thought.

Waylon takes a moment to assess her surroundings with narrowed eyes, and then she brings her attention to Eddie. "You survived," she comments, the words sounding more surprised than anything. There's a twinge of annoyance that washes over him, yet who can blame her for thinking so?

"Yes, my little Sleeping Beauty, I survived," he says. "And so did Trager. We managed to get away from those whores before they realized that fighting us one on one was idiotic when attacking by three or more would've been more efficient." He chuckles at that and shakes his head, not particularly fond of the possibility or memory. Eddie rolls his head to the side to look at Waylon, who is staring intently at him, and decides that a little more contact won't hurt their situation. What surprises him, though, is that Waylon doesn't squirm away when he wraps his arm around her waist.

She's soft here too, albeit not as much as he had imagined. She hasn't been eating, has she? "We looked for you once we were free."

Waylon's tone is incredulous. "Really?"

"Yeah." Eddie nods slightly. "I was…worried when I realized that the church's fire was spreading faster and further than I initially thought. I sent you there to save you, but if something had happened…" He stops there, feeling his throat begin to dry and he tries to swallow the lump. Waylon remains silent, which he is grateful for until the silence shifts into something uncomfortably tangible. He opens his mouth to speak, however, Waylon's voice chimes before his.

"I knew you were coming," she says in a voice barely louder than a whisper, like that of a ghost, and it is Eddie's turn to be surprised.

"How?" He can't help asking. "Trager and I were surrounded. How did you hold on to such faith?"

"I knew that you wouldn't give up on finding me. You wouldn't leave me alone."

There is something in the way she says 'alone,' enunciating the word to stress all of its implications. Loneliness, isolation, independence, and fear all twisted into two syllables. Her eyes stray from Eddie's then but he cannot look away, as if her presence is a lodestone and he is a ferromagnetic.

Eddie is suddenly made excruciatingly aware of their proximity. His hand rests cold on his waist, fingers slightly toying with the hem of her ragged shirt. He pokes a spot that is significantly warmer than the rest of her, and Waylon jerks into his side. She cranes her neck to glare at Eddie and he dismisses her annoyance with a smile.

Here, with Waylon pressed against his side and the warmth of the bed and their bodies settled around them, life seems to stand upright and purposeful. It feels _right_ to sit next to her, to be with her, and he is once again reminded of his love – of his desire to have Waylon to himself, and to keep her by his side forever. An eternity of affection is hardly sufficient time for him to express how much he cherishes her.

He chances a glance at her to see that she is content with sitting by him, her eyes glazed as she stares into a faraway place. Is she here, in the present? Eddie wants to peer into her mind and see what she sees, feel what she feels, but he knows that that would be an invasion of her space – no – rather, an invasion of the space he's building between them. It is a good one, he recognizes, one where Waylon has her own mind and can come to him out of her own volition. She can come to him because she wants to and needs to, not because he is forcing her to.

Trager wouldn't understand.

He holds Waylon a little tighter. If his darling is…an object at rest, then perhaps he should wait alongside her. It is the safest, more reasonable answer; however, with each passing second the idea becomes less exciting and more fruitless. He has her right here, alone and pliant and _safe._ She is neither moving away from him nor coming closer, causing a sort of malfunction in Eddie that makes his heartbeat quicken while his blood runs cold. The light flickers on the ceiling, on and then off, and the bundles of candles throughout the workshop glow dimly.

He tests his luck with a subtle change in position.

He relishes in the warmth of her skin as he begins to caress her nape, dragging his fingertips through waves of hair. The strands slip past his grip like sand. Eddie tries to trap them by pinching them between his thumb and forefinger. He feels Waylon stiffen at his side, but she relaxes just as quickly as she grew taut, which sends a boost of confidence to Eddie's ego.

So he pushes their boundaries further by shuffling perpendicular to Waylon until he is in front of her slightly. She watches him with a frown, confusion displayed clearly on her face. And oh, how alluring is her gaze. Lips apart, brilliant eyes trained on him, and cheeks flushed in that spiraling pink, Eddie is mesmerized by her appearance. He removes his hand from her hair only to tease the arch of her ear. Her eyes widen and she looks about to ask a question, but Eddie silences her by tipping his nose over hers.

"Darling," he sings in a deep voice that is riveting for how close they are. Waylon tries to move but Eddie's hand is back on her neck, now circling the base of her collar with his thumb. He presses into the space there and Waylon gasps, involuntarily drawing them closer. "Darling," he repeats.

"Eddie," she practically whimpers, and it is either the submission or discomfort in her voice that drags a deep growl from him.

The atmosphere is thick. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that it is tangible; wispy tendrils laden with unadulterated desires whip past them at simultaneously the speed of light and at a state of rest. They cancel each other out and leave empty space that is perfectly replicated here: Eddie is at rest, and so is Waylon, but his entire _being_ is begging to move.

He can feel her breaths mingle with his, and if the heat rising up her neck is any indication of what he assumes to be acceptance, then he isn't going to waste her submission. Eddie's heart seems to flutter in that moment between conception and action, and then he is leaning forward and pressing his lips on to Waylon's.

The ability to think is a valuable skill that leaves him instantly; all he knows now is to allow his body to guide him and help Waylon along the way. She is stoic, possibly frozen, but that does not stop him from breaking for breath and then moving in for another kiss. And another. And another. And now he can't get enough of her soft lips and body heat. Her kisses are intoxicating even though she still hasn't moved, but he is grateful to have this opportunity. On a particularly forceful kiss, he feels Waylon's arms tremble and lock, and her chin tilt for air.

Waylon swallows thickly and the motion sends shrills down Eddie's spine. "Eddie, I don't think we should," she stops there, closes her eyes, and bites her lower lip under the force of Eddie kissing a deep crimson bruise on her neck.

"Why not?" he breathes between kisses, lips trailing to the sensitive spot where her collar and neck meet.

Waylon jerks away from his tongue. "Trager could come back at anytime."

"Trager is busy, Darling."

"But he could come back."

"And what do you fear?" He counters before pulling away from her tantalizing throat. His gaze is cold over her frightened one, but he can't find it in himself to yield his simmering frustration. "After all of the hardship that we've endured, you want to make a mockery of my – _our_ – passion and say 'wait'? How long do you wish for Trager to be gone for us to have time? My affection only grows hotter by the minute, and I am content with negating my friend for the pleasure of being with you."

She clasps her hands together. "But you are with me," she says, and Eddie wants to laugh; instead, he rests his hands on the wall behind Waylon's precious head and leans close, backing her against it so that she is trapped and pliant. He tilts his head, and she parts her lips, expecting a kiss, but is greeted with a wave of heat when Eddie whispers into her ear, "I want to be with you _i_ _ntimately,_ my dear Waylon."

He moves to kiss her, to secure his desires, but he is pushed away by a pair of small hands and nimble fingers. "Darling?" Eddie says, dejected, trying to ignore the sharp knife of rejection stabbing his gut.

"I'm not ready yet," Waylon says loudly, crawling to the side of the bed with a bewildered expression on her face.

 _Ugly,_ Eddie thinks, _her face is ugly like that._ "That is true; however, I am willing to bypass that fact for now, my love. I have waited long enough-"

"But you promised to wait! You don't want this, Eddie. We can wait until I am perfect."

He catches her by the arm before she could launch herself off the bed and slip away. She hisses, that nasty look on her face contorting into that of a witch's, and Eddie's fist tighten around her elbow. "Perfection is impossible in the eyes of man," he retorts while yanking Waylon down on the bed and twisting her arm to render her immobile. Her cry is piercing, breaking some part of his heart, but it is not enough to convince him to stop.

Why does she reject his love?

"I understand that we are running the risk of impurity, but I cannot wait any longer." He says this forcefully, having to grind the words from between his teeth. Waylon is trembling under him, under his powerful hold, and he knows that he is hurting her – degrading and scaring her – but he also knows that Waylon has a rebellious streak and tends to not listen unless force is applied. So he hikes her arm above her head with one hand while wrapping his other hand around her throat. If he squeezes, he can almost close his whole hand around her – she gasps for air, eyes dreadfully wet, and Eddie stares in amazement as a single tear breaks from its confines and trails down her rosy cheek.

"Darling, I wanted to wait, I honestly did. But after almost losing you twice… What if you leave me before we can consummate our love? What if you get lost, or I'm attacked, and we never see each other again? Doesn't that hurt, Waylon? Anything can happen to us, and I cannot control that." He pleas silently, feeling his heart pound thunderously in his chest, and waits for Waylon to answer.

It comes after far too long. "But you can control this," she tries, her voice cracked and crushed under his hand. Eddie watches her carefully for a moment before a small smile pulls on the corner of his lips.

"Yes," he says, "that I do."

* * *

Beauty is a quality that comes from the inside, and not out. It took a while for Eddie to understand this. He tested this theory through many means, most consisting of unwilling participates and whores, while some were tried through willing sinners. Yet, no matter how hard he tried he could never recreate the beauty that he knew was existent in the world. Those worthless beings were nothing without his dazzling dresses and cloths; their wretchedness seeped through the fibers and inevitably twisted his masterpieces into works of demonic nature.

How can one find beauty in a world filled with ugliness? How can beauty prevail over vulgarity's devastation? He searched and waited for love's parsimonious hand to gift him with a moment of clarity; he waited for a moment of pure, grandeur beauty, and it soon it dawned upon him that this desire was drawn from naivety.

Beauty would evade him for all of his days, and no matter how hard he fought for it, love would evade him too. He thought this, believed this, and was on the verge of giving up when god sent an angel and gave him exactly what he was looking for.

He waited, and now everything is clear.

Waylon's mouth is gorgeous when it is spread wide around his cock.

Eddie is kneeling on the bed, hands holding Waylon's head still as he thrusts gently into her mouth. The warmth envelops him, guides his movements through a steady rhythm that falters whenever Waylon twirls her tongue around his sensitive head. She does it unintentionally, Eddie is sure.

Face tinted a deep crimson and cheeks stained by tears, Eddie thinks that Waylon is the epitome of perfection. She cries gently around him, her slight hiccups sending sensations through him that are unnatural. The pleasure is impossible. He pulls out of her mouth and moans at the feel of her lips giving way with a wet _pop._ She hiccups again and tries to lean back but Eddie's hands tighten in her hair.

"You know what I ask of you, Darling," he warns, pressing the tip of his length to her lips. Her eyelids flutter open momentarily before they close and she nods like a good girl, relaxing her reflexes to allow Eddie to push deep into her.

Is it sick of him to revel in how her body is fighting him? He twist his fingers and tilt her head up, giving himself more leverage to thrust into her mouth and watch her submit and choke on his girth. She gags and the reflex causes a wave of pleasure to rush up his body. Eddie growls and thrusts faster; her little noises are a melody unprecedented, rivaling that of even Mozart. An orchestra of delirious moans and gagging plays loudly in the room, reverberating off the walls and travelling through his workshop. It is all he can hear, can sense, can almost taste and he basks in it – drowns in the bliss of pounding into his love's open mouth and feeling her lips wrapped tight around him. He wants to yank her hair and make her jump, beg for him to fill her, leave her with her mouth agape and tears flowing down to her chin. He hears something akin to a whimper and presses further into her mouth, down her throat, before stilling.

Waylon tries to swallow but her attempt it fruitless: there's spit coming from the side of her mouth that drops to her chin. Eddie caresses her cheek with his thumb and whispers sweet nothings to her, encouraging her to hold still for a little longer, to be patient until he is satisfied. Foolishly, she tries to reply only to choke on his cock, but Eddie finds her effort to be endearing. His sweet, beautiful Waylon. He smiles softly at her when she meets his gaze, and after a moment of reluctance, slowly begins to release her.

She is quick to spit what's in her mouth on to the bed without sparing Eddie a glance. He allows her time to recover; he isn't in a rush. Taking himself in hand, Eddie strokes languidly, not focused of receiving pleasure but more so on calming his heart and bringing himself down from his high. He was close, and if Waylon had used her tongue like before he surely would have came relentlessly down her pretty little throat. But he has…more pressing desires that need to come to fruition.

Cocking his head, Eddie shuffles on the bed before snapping for Waylon's attention. The sound is like thunder in the silent space, and Waylon trembles under it. "On your knees," he commands. Her eyes widen in panic, body clearly shaking, and she looks completely _ravaged;_ her lips are a bruised red and her skin tone borderlines pale, hair a tangled mess on her head. She takes in a shaky breath and Eddie raises an eyebrow. "I won't ask you again, Way-"

"E-Eddie, please," she says, not crawling away from him but clearly trying to put distance between them. She curls into herself and wipes her mouth. "I'll finish you with…with my mouth, but please, I'm not."

"You're only making this harder for yourself." Eddie narrows his eyes and straightens his posture, casting a shadow over Waylon that almost completely covers her. He reaches out to her with an open palm but she jerks away, breathing heavily, and turns around to run but he grabs her by the legs and hold her still, fingers digging into the back of her knee.

Waylon cries out in pain and shakes her head vigorously, twisting her body in search of leverage or release. "I'm not ready!" she screams. "Please, Eddie, please I don't want t-this!" She kicks, knocking the wind out of Eddie with one particular hit, but Eddie recovers quickly and strikes her thigh. She groans, burying her face into the mattress, and her shirt rides up to expose more skin.

 _"Waylon,"_ he says in a deep growl and slaps her thigh again. Her skin burns brightly and she cries out, shouting something, wiping her tears on the mattress and wiggling to no avail. He moves to kneel between her thighs in order to spread her legs, and grabs her by the collar of her shirt, reigning in some of her fight by choking her.

Neglecting to strip her was a lack of foresight on his part; however, a sudden idea comes to mind and he wastes no time implementing it. Dragging her pants past her hips, he uses Waylon's struggling to tear them from her legs, baring her and the purple panties he gave her so long ago, and jerks one of her arms behind her back. It's difficult to accomplish while she is fighting him, but soon Eddie is tying a knot around her wrists, bounding them together, and then he leans back to examine his work.

Her entire body seems to burn with aggression, skin taut and muscles flexed, captivating in a way that should be impossible. His stomach flips in anticipation just from looking at her – at his creation – and who can blame him if he takes pride in her. Eddie's smile shifts into something twisted, a little more animalisticl, yet he is unconscious of it. All he knows is Waylon, and the burn in the pit of his gut is insatiable.

Waylon's scream rips through the air as he tears into her unprepared body. The stretch is forceful, powerful, and Eddie regrets moving in so quickly until his movements are eased by a thin, unconventional lubricate. He thrusts into her mercilessly; it is not so much about pleasure now than it is about control and shutting her up. He moans into her back, crushing her arms and bringing about pain that he knows settles into her shoulders. Her cries have reached an unacceptable level, he deems, so he tears her panties in two and shoves the pieces into her mouth. He pushes it as far as he can with his fingers and she gags around them, breath hitching, and body following the push and pull of his thrusts.

He loves her. He loves Waylon and goddamn it he _needs_ her to feel his ferocious, draining, exhilarating love. So he pounds into her, twisting her arms and holding her in place with an arm wrapped around her waist. She is weak against him, like an exhausted and used doll, yet her voice is resilient. She cries, and he moans; it is a grotesque combination.

Eddie, beyond his better judgment, lowers his hand to grab her – to his surpise– semi-hard vulgarity. A surge of disgust rushes through him, but the throes of passion have placed their lethal grips on him and he is no longer in control of his actions. Eddie shoves her filthy shirt farther up her back.

"Waylon," he says through clenched teeth. "Say my name."

She moans in pain and shakes her head, tries to wiggle out from under Eddie but his grip is too strong. He forces her lips apart and pulls the bundle of drenched panties from her mouth, throwing them somewhere off to the side. Grabbing Waylon by her hips and pulling out until only his head is left inside, Eddie repeats, "Say my name."

"N-no-"

He thrusts into her harshly for her defiance, causing her to scream and writhe. "Say it," he commands.

Waylon gasps and presses her chest into the mattress. He is pulling out again to repeat his action when he hears over the slap of skin Waylon whisper his name. Smirking, Eddie pumps her now hard cock gingerly. "Louder."

"Ed…Eddie," she moans before a sharp shout escapes her lips.

"Again," he says, and she calls his name, louder this time. He's close again, feeling the need to release radiate from his groin to pulse up his spine and to his toes. It spreads quickly through his body, and soon his thrusts lose their rhythm and become erratic jerks of his hips. "Darling," he gasps and strokes Waylon a little faster.

She hiccups in what sounds like a sob before weakly calling Eddie's name. He kisses her back and thrusts deep into her, closing his eyes, and his mind becomes a blank space. She is burning, and her scent is intoxicating. He inhales deeply and feels her twitch in his hand as he thrusts into her, hitting something that causes her to yelp and twist her back. Her moan is delightful, so he aims for that spot relentlessly, nearing his end, and when she clenches around him and comes in his hand, he finishes not long after.

The lights flicker, on and then off again. The scent of sex is strong in the air, but he can't complain. Their breathing is the only sound in the entire workshop and absently Eddie wonders where Trager is. But that is a question for another time, especially since his thoughts are buzzed and Waylon has collapsed on to the bed. Gently, he pulls out of her and wipes himself clean with the sheets before undoing the pants tied around her wrists. Red welts decorate her skin intricately, like a work of art, and Eddie does not hesitate to trail his finger along the lines.

Waylon's hiss and grumble coaxes him to stop; he does so with a smile. Wetting his lips, Eddie places a hand on Waylon's back, more so tapping her, and she turns her head to look at him.

"Darling, I-" he starts, but then the words dissipate before he can speak them. Waylon is watching him now, tears welling in her eyes and body trembling, and although she looks so beautiful and he knows what he wants to say, he simply cannot. It is bizarre, yet it feels natural. So he settles into his lost of words and shakes his head. Instead, he waves Waylon closer until she is nestled into his side with her head on his chest, just like earlier.

The memory is a blur, but Eddie is convinced that he said "I love you" before the crash outside of his workshop dragged him back into the pits of Hell, and that Waylon, in her daze, whispered it too.


	16. Betrayed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, extremely sorry for the long wait.  
> Forgive me?

"So you've finally decided to come, buddy? Huh?" Trager's voice is followed with another loud crash, like glass shattering, and a series of metal parts follow suit and slam against the floor.

Waylon clings to the back of his shirt tightly as he hastens his steps and round the corner, fuming down the hall toward the machinery room.

" Eddie," Waylon mumbles to the side of him, but he raises a palm to shush her, not caring to hear her or try to calm down when Trager is in there destroying something. The gall of the man—the _audacity_ to ruin their consummation runs cold in Eddie's veins yet boils his blood. As if his innards are on fire, he feels extremely hot despite the knowledge that the vocational halls are almost always freezing. His hands curl into fists at his side. Walls and shadows shift and tilt as he half-jogs, the hollow thud of his feet thunderous in the vacuum of a hallway. It transforms into a pitch black tunnel where all he can see is the light from the room and all he can hear is the maniac throwing his stuff.

 _His_ stuff.

Eddie snarls as he enters the room, back straight and stiff as he rolls the sleeves of his sweater vest halfway up his forearm. He takes another step forward but Waylon's lack of movement holds him back, so he wrenches her hand off and shoves her away when she tries to stay. "I don't need you by my side," he says without sparing her a glance; instead, he takes in the disaster before him.

Many of the tables that had once stood erect are now turned over or are laid flat with broken or torn off legs. Clutters of fabrics, thread, and decorative pieces lie around the tables, some of the smaller ones rolling away and clanking into each other. Beside one torn table leg is a circle of glass shards and beads. Mixed in the mess are countless dented and broken sewing machines; a couple lie against the wall in shambles, with metal plates completely ripped off or hanging by a mere screw. And in the mist of all this stands one Richard Trager with a glint in his eye that screams murder and a sickeningly mocking grin splitting his lips.

The doctor's enthusiasm seems to spark when he catches Eddie's gaze. "The man of the hour has arrived!"

"You piece of shit."

"Harsh words for a sinner himself," Trager tilts his head. "What? Did I hurt your feelings?"

Eddie slams his foot down on one of the metal plates and sends it skidding across the room. "The complete disregard for _my home_ is-"

"You were too busy fucking your precious _Waylon_ to bother with me-"

He takes another step forward. "Don't you _ever_ put my darling's name in your mouth."

"Or what, huh? You'd kill me, buddy?" Trager's expression darkens. "You wouldn't touch me."

"Watch your words before you regret them, Tra-"

"We had a _deal,_ Gluskin!" Trager shouts and grabs one of the broken table legs. He digs his nails into it for a second before throwing it against the wall and reveling in the loud _smack_ that resounds.

In his peripheral Eddie catches Waylon flinch, and a small part of him wishes to pull her to him again, but from the way that she is leaning on the wall for support he suspects that she'll fall if the contact is lost. No matter, because his focus needs to be elsewhere, and if the hostile aura radiating from Trager is ever directed solely on Eddie—which it very well may be in a matter of moments— he wouldn't want Waylon near.

Eyeing Trager cautiously, Eddie says, "What does our deal have to do with you destroying a part of my home? There is _no_ reason for that."

"No reason? Are you," the doctor swings his head back and howls a brutal laugh. It's hysterical and raw, sounding more like a battered sob than anything else. "Are you serious? Our deal is the very reason why he's still here!" He yells, but his voice carries something much more piercing than anger. "You help me, I help you. That was the deal, but it seems like you're the only one winning here and I'm _losing._ "

Trager's body jerks, the motion flowing as well as a haphazardly stringed marionette doll. The contortions in his body are grotesque and ill, emphasizing the jut of his ribs and hip, the long gash on his abdomen that weeps crimson despite the tight stitching, and the many tears and lines that mark his muscles. He approaches Eddie with false calm and presses his finger into his sternum when they're close enough for his arm to be bent at the elbow.

Trager's eyes hold betrayal. "I called for you."

"When?" He hadn't heard anything, nothing at all. Eddie tries to recall the doctor's voice but finds no evidence of this interruption; all he can hear is the sound of Waylon's sweet screams and ragged breaths. "You were gone for the past hour!"

"I _needed_ you but you weren't there," Trager's voice drops. "You were too caught up in 'consummating your love' or whatever bullshit you call it to hear me, Gluskin. You don't… _You_ disregarded me, you neglected our friendship—" Eddie scoffs, "—when he was right there. When we could have finally, _finally_ gotten to him." The finger prodding Eddie's chest turns into knuckles before Trager pulls away and turns his body so that he is presenting himself to Waylon.

Spreading his arms wide, he lifts his voice as if talking to an audience. "Is this what you wanted? Is this what you were planning?"

"She isn't a part of your failure, Trager," Eddie spits while angling himself between the doctor and Waylon. "You didn't call for me, you weren't nearby. I would have heard you if you did so leave her out of this."

Trager bites back a growl. His voice is seething, ominous, and he punctuates each word with a pause, "You don't understand me."

"What is there to understand?" Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration before saying, "By god, we can go out later and look for him but that does excuse your blunt _disrespect_ and-"

His words die as something suddenly hits his chest and lands in his free hand. He recognizes the shape almost immediately, rectangular as a base but with little knobs here and there and a screen that can be flipped open and closed. He is momentarily taken aback, images colliding in his head that paint their first encounter, but when he finally brings himself to look at the device in his hand he sees that the camera is merely similar.

"What is this?" he asks after a while. Though the camera is lightweight, it leaves his hand and head feeling heavy and swollen. He tries to remind himself that the device is just that, a camera that is irrelevant and not connected to anything, but if it was just so then why is it making his heart pound just a little faster?

He's unnerving himself, he knows, recognizes it, especially since Trager still hasn't spoken—or maybe he has and Eddie just isn't listening? Is that not what led him here in the first place? The world around him gives a warning shake and Eddie has to press his feet against the floor to keep from wavering. Between dry lips he repeats, "What is this?"

"He had it around his goddamn neck." Trager's hand clenches, about to close into a fist but he stops through the motion and flexes his fingers instead. "Somehow it fell, so I took it and," he pauses here to shift his gaze from his hand. Noticing Trager's silence, Eddie follows the doctor's eyes until it lands on Waylon.

Her back is fully pressed against the wall to keep her standing, for her legs are trembling and her skin is paling by the second. Fear clouds her eyes as she looks between them, and Eddie has no idea of what to make of it. He opens his mouth to speak, to ask her why she looks so afraid, but Eddie's words are caught in his throat and the weight in his hand grows more solid.

"Play the very end, and maybe you'll understand," is all Trager says, but the command is taken wordlessly and Eddie finds himself desperately curious and overwhelmed. So he holds down the power button on the camera to find that it was never actually off, and scrolls through the footage until he finds the most recent video.

The scene before him is of familiar whitish-blue walls that look like stone and metal doors. The world shifts and tilts too often for a clear picture, zooming in on one of the laboratory doors and then fixing itself after a couple seconds. It's as if the user is just checking the camera's functionality from how random the taping is, and that idea proves itself when thermal is turned on despite the hall being well lit. Eddie squints to lessen the intensity of the bright white light and lime green shadows. Soon enough, the thermal is turned off and the picture is back to normal, but the user is only focusing the shot on the hallway and Eddie feels a punch in his gut. He shouldn't have trusted Trager—the madman, the one who brought chaos to his home over his own, personal failure—to show him something useful, but in retrospect Eddie was giving him too much credit. He felt compromised and lost, and Trager's words had seemed guiding.

Eddie goes to close the screen but the hand on the back of his arm stops him. The doctor's look is earnest; a sort of pleading that is far from the word's denotation but fits Trager's expression perfectly. He doesn't necessarily want to obey the man's silent command. It feels like a power play or a shift in their dynamic, but the warmth that seeps from Trager's hand into his arm is disgusting, so he shrugs away and briefly catches the image on the screen.

Standing in the hallway that leads to the cursed Engine is Waylon; her eyes are wide, puffy, and tinged pink around the edges which announces past tears. Her eyebrows are furrowed up in concern, and she looks nervous. This must have been recorded when he and Trager were still in the courtyard, because when had he ever left her alone? He hadn't, and the realization causes dread to settle heavy in his heart and gut.

The camera moves so that it is no longer on Waylon but is showing the end of the hallway instead. Eddie recognizes the elevator on screen as the one he and Trager entered into at the church, and flashes of the events that happened in there realign themselves and connect like jigsaw pieces; fitting together in rushed, jagged ways that Eddie never thought to combine before.

Waylon had been down in the laboratory with Miles—who else? He stares at the footage and spots a few black, web-like tendrils curling in and out of view. Eddie told Waylon to stay in the church, but the church was on fire and the elevator was probably the first route Waylon saw. She didn't know Miles was down there. She couldn't have known.

Even so, why hadn't Miles attacked her, and why is she walking (rather closely) with him? Ignorance does not justify actions that occur after one's eyes have opened, and Miles had no obligation to _not_ harm Waylon.

The pair comes to a stop in front of the elevator, and the camera is suddenly turned to Waylon.

" _What are you doing?"_

Eddie clenches the camera tighter. He watches as Waylon's mouth opens and close in a loss for words, the obvious fear on his darling's face rejected as Miles snaps harshly, _"We have what we need, Waylon. I didn't tell you to get this damned camera just so we can sit and watch my misery together. We have to_ leave. _"_ The camera swings wildly as Miles turns sharply to enter the elevator but is stopped by some force.

" _Park."_

The name is said with so much filth and annoyance that it causes a spike of hatred to fill Eddie. For someone to speak to _his_ darling like that is just begging for a slow, painful death, and if Miles was near right now Eddie has enough adrenaline coursing through him to try to strangle him to death. Yet, all of that dies when the camera stops shaking and settles on Waylon's face.

Waylon, whose godforsaken eyes are filled with desperation and horror.

Waylon, whose arm is reaching out to Miles, _holding onto him,_ in what Eddie can only assume to be a sign for the creature to stay.

Waylon, whom is refusing to get into the elevator, the very elevator that would have led her straight to Eddie's welcoming arms, but isn't disagreeing with the idea of leaving with Miles.

Waylon, whom is staring at Eddie from across the room with her arms wrapped tightly around her chest and body screaming to be swallowed whole by the wall or floor, whichever comes first.

His eyes never straying from hers, Eddie powers off the camera and closes it with a _snap._

"E-Eddie."

He hands the device to Trager and is thankful for the doctor's silence when he takes it and walks away, circling around one of the damaged tables in order to return to the spot he was in when Eddie entered the room.

Waylon, the poor, beautiful idiot, is backing herself into a corner of the wall. "I didn't mean anything by that. Eddie, I-I wasn't… I didn't even know who he was or," she draws a shaky breath. "Eddie I'm here with you n-now."

Stopping a foot or so in front of her, Eddie can see that every part of her is flinching and curling away from him. Her arms twitch and her legs tremble like jello; if he were to kick them they would give and she'd crumble to the floor. She'd try to fight and crawl and scream and run away but Eddie wouldn't allow any of that, he'd just watch and listen. He'd bask in her cries until she realized her stupidity and came back to him like a wounded puppy. Once she was calm again, he'd forgive her and kiss away the pain embedded in her bones.

But he isn't going to kick her. Walking is already hard enough.

Grabbing a fistful of the hair at her nape, Eddie yanks her head back until her throat is exposed and she is staring directly up at him. "Is that what you want to do, Waylon? After all this time we've spent together, you still want to _leave_ me?!"

"I wasn't going to leave!" She cries and tries to lean into his fist to lessen the pain but he jerks her head to the right to fix that problem.

"Then why didn't you want to go in the elevator?"

"I was afraid!"

"And how does he know your name?"

Silence. Eddie squeezes her neck but she only groans and chokes on a sob. Her knees knock against his legs violently, and the longer he holds her the more he can feel her slipping. She tries to fix her stance, but traction is impossible to find and she is left struggling fruitlessly.

" _How_ does he knows your name, Waylon, if you weren't planning on leaving with him?" 

She responds with a barely audible plea.

Here, watching Waylon weakly fight and wiggle, Eddie's feels the flame of anger die and fade into a sensation that can only be described as melancholy. He holds her for a moment longer, no more than five seconds, and then drop his grip and stare as she fumbles into the wall. Her body remains tense, but when nothing happens to her afterwards she opens her eyes and look at him.

Hesitantly, she whispers, "Eddie?"

"I want you to go find Miles again and bring him to the front lobby by tomorrow morning," he says while turning on his heel. "That's more than enough time, but accounting for your…walking situation, I'm giving you leeway." His heartbeat sounds like the steady drum of a hammer on a nail. Loud, regular, engulfing. Eddie kicks away all destruction in his path with lack of interest until he is passing Trager and heading out of the sewing room.

However, before he leaves he pauses at the doorway and says over his shoulder, "If you try to escape, I will find you. If you try to hide and not bring him to the lobby, I will not only eventually find you, _Darling,_ but I will hunt you down like prey and hang you from the ceiling like all of the other whores. So please, for your own sake, do not disappoint."

* * *

 It all hurts so badly.

Collapsing to the floor with little luster or flourish, Waylon draws in his legs to act as a cushion for his pelvis. Although the pain has dulled some throughout the day, walking for god knows how long in the darkness while trying to be as quiet as possible did nothing to help the bruises on his body or, especially, the burning pain in his ass and hips. Nor does it help that he's been spotting blood on his pants or dripping down his legs; a sure sign that something is fucked up, but comparatively, this will heal while other issues may never be mended.

Sighing, Waylon reaches for the nearest shelf and grabs a dented can of peaches. It's fortunate how hobbling down a random hallway led Waylon back to the storage room Eddie decided to claim and fill with food. The room is mostly empty, but Waylon knows that it is probably the only place left in the entire asylum that hasn't been scavenged and contains food that is actually edible. It's a wonder he's still even alive with how long it has been since he's had a proper meal, but one can assume that constant adrenaline rushes and the fear of death can keep a person alive for much longer than if he were in normal circumstances.

Which brings him back to the predicament that he is in right now: Eddie…let him go. With a leash, Waylon supposes, but the idea of the very man who claimed Waylon as his own suddenly setting him loose does not sit well, and makes Waylon want to vomit the one peach he managed to swallow. It doesn't make sense. No matter what angle Waylon tries to use it simply contradicts itself—contradicts everything the Groom is—and leaves Waylon more flustered and disheveled than before.

_Bring Miles to the front lobby tomorrow morning._

He has his orders, a mission with a threat of death, and the decision should be simple. Disobey Eddie and make a run for it with or without Miles. The preferable option is with Miles, since the guy is basically a demon and can probably handle both Trager and Eddie easily, but for some reason Waylon can hardly bring himself to dwell on that option. Yet, he also doesn't want to sacrifice Miles.

Feeling a wave of paranoia wash over him, Waylon tries to distract himself by scooping out another peach. It slides everywhere, slipping between his fingers when he tries to pluck it and at some point Waylon groans in frustration and pulls his fingers out. He sucks the juice from his fingers and then grabs the bottom of the can and holds it above it mouth, letting gravity do the work this time.

And since his eyes and mind are focused elsewhere, he misses the sudden haze that forms in the room and the mist that builds at the door, fumbling over webs of ink until a silhouette is formed and solidified.

When Waylon pulls the can away from his face, two possessed eyes are staring back at him.

"Why are you alone?"


	17. Surprise

Waylon _almost_ spits the peach juice back up and on Miles.

He chokes, the syrup lodged painfully in his throat and when it starts to go down again it feels warmer and tastes terrible. Placing the empty can by his side, he wipes his mouth and levels Miles a half-hearted glare. "Thanks."

"Welcome," Miles says. He looks around the room once more before asking, "Where's Trager?"

The question is expected and expectant, leaving Waylon falling back into the well of dismay he figured he could escape from for a while longer. But Miles' abysmal eyes are on him, and the scrutiny in them gives Waylon the feeling that the being already knows what happened. Waylon crosses an arm over his knees and, with his free hand, scratches the can's aluminum lining. He mumbles, "I don't know."

"How do you not know?"

"They-" he pauses, not sure whether to tell Miles the whole truth or not. He hasn't even cleared his thoughts enough to properly think yet. Drawing in a breath, Waylon says, "They sent me away for a while, said I needed to eat," he lifts the can and gives it a shake, "and sleep if possible. This is the safest place here and I'm sure they'll be back soon to check on me." That last part makes something in Waylon ache, and he tries to ignore it by biting his lower lip and focusing on Miles.

The man is still a mess of shadowy mist and revolving tendrils. Arms crossed, he stands above Waylon with an expression on his face that seems searching, as if he is seeing past him; the notion is enough to cause a small shiver to ripple through Waylon which he tries to hide. After what feels like an eternity, Miles raises his arm to his shoulder and points his thumb towards the door. "If that's the case," he says, "we better get moving then."

"Moving?" Waylon uses the back wall to push himself to his feet, hesitating on unsure legs before taking a step out. "I told you that Eddie and Trager will be back soon."

As he says this a burst of mist falls from Miles' hand to the floor. It bubbles there before the pieces flatten and spread, but not necessarily disappear. If he looks close enough he can pinpoint individual groups of black vibrating in place and sticking together if two groups are near. They're like small magnets, repelling on same ends and attracting opposites, and it seems as though some pieces are completely polarized while others, the ones not attracting anything, aren't.

Waylon is careful to avoid the bundle of mist when crossing the room and stops only a foot or so from Miles. He turns on his heel a little too sharply and scrunches his nose. "What even is that?"

"It's my essence, I suppose. I can attack with it, or leave it somewhere and it'll create a link that can be traced back to me," he forms a ball that looks like tar and throws it at the ground, where it shatters and then swarms back into his body. "If we leave we can easily find the room again."

He sounds very sure of himself, and Waylon wonders if he has ever used this skill before. Well, obviously, but when and why? If Miles is so powerful, why is he still here? There are vents scattered around the asylum, simple escape routes to the outside world; those could be his underground railroad.

Waylon eyes the being warily, his hips burning and toes curling, and makes a move for the door after Miles. Once outside the room he closes the door without a sound and huffs.

"Backtracking is wonderful and all, but what does that have to do with you taking me somewhere? I mean, I get that we can leave the room and return if need be but how will we know _when_ to come back? I don't suppose you've set a timer." He scuffs the floor with his big toe and scrapes a line of crust. His face twists in disgust and he sidesteps until the floor feels smooth again, and glances up, catching a split in Mile's lips that reveal an outline of grey teeth that are more like canines, sharp and imperfect and lethal. They bear ugly and raw and Waylon feels something drop in the pit of his stomach as Miles turns to him.

The mist seems to thicken into armor. "I think you've seen the answer to that question."

And as quickly as it came, the moment flees. Miles' teeth are shielded by a wave of webs, and then the darkness begins to recede back into his body, thinning out the mist until it is a slight barrier between himself and natural air. He reaches for Waylon but his hand is slapped away quickly.

"Where are you taking me?" Waylon recoils, bewilderment clear on his face.

"What?" Miles, to his credit, doesn't try to touch Waylon again, but he moves closer while Waylon walks backwards into the hallway.

"You heard me, Miles. Where are we going?"

"I wanted to show you something. Why are you backing away?" He holds his palms out in surrender. "I'm not going to take you anywhere that would hurt you, if you're thinking that. It's a little surprise." Miles runs a three fingered hand through his hair. "Waylon, don't you trust me?"

It's a single word spoken to render Waylon frozen and fearful. Frowning, Waylon tries to widen the gap between them but his legs feel like jelly again and are extremely hard to move, so he staggers until the world tilts and the floor welcomes him with open arms, yanking his feet from under him and causing him to crash to the ground with the slam of his knee; yet even as the pain shoots right to his pelvis, Waylon's thoughts are trapped elsewhere—in the past, revolving around a raspy voice and four words.

In his mind's eye he sees a multitude of bloody scars marking the side of a face and sapphire eyes drowning in anguish and disappointment, but all of that is masked with vicious, overwhelming anger.

Waylon is snapped back to reality by the feeling of ice cupping his face. His eyes fly open as he jerks away, leveling his gaze on Miles when his heart's sprint turns into a steady jog. Although his body is in its human state, Miles' eyes remain a blur of mist and darkness.

"You good?" he asks when Waylon makes no effort to speak. After a moment the smaller man nods and moves to sit up. Miles follows his movement and then stands with little grace, possibly unbalanced from having his feet touch the ground. He holds out a hand for Waylon to take and helps lift him, even going the extra mile of holding Waylon's shoulder while the technician centers himself.

Once the wave of dizziness leaves Waylon and he feels as normal as expected, he nudges Miles' elbow (partially to disperse the tension in the air and partially to add an extra inch of space). "So," he begins, "taking a leap a faith… Where is this place you want to show me?"

* * *

As of right now, Waylon is sure that Miles does not want to harm him.

The realization comes suddenly, albeit unsurprisingly. They are like two seeds from the same flower; while their paths may defer they spring from the same place, and Mount Massive has treated neither with any more favor than the other. However, to place a label on their relationship seems to simultaneously understate and emphasize what may or may not be there. Waylon isn't sure, but he feels the oxymoron is sufficient enough since other words fail to capture their fragile bond—a bond which has been borne from circumstance and little else, linking them through the familiarity of normalcy, victimization, and alienation, because they don't belong in a place like this and were never meant to be here.

But fate…fate is an unreadable bastard that finds humor in placing people in dire situations and surveying their reactions. This place has been nothing more than test after test of will and psychology and to find someone like Miles here who isn't a part of the lunacy makes Waylon's lungs clench and his stomach twist and his thoughts race with treachery despite his most valiant efforts.

Somehow being with Miles takes away the fear and replaces it with—what Waylon would like to believe is—hope. Deep, resonating hope. It is unknown what the hope is for, but just having a sense of future quells even the darkest parts of Waylon's mind. He also knows that he is being extremely naïve to put his trust in a being that is as human as it is demon; it's hard to forget the fact when Miles' body occasionally shimmers and black webs hastily spring from his spine to hold his limbs in place, reminding Waylon that the form he sees is just a shell and beneath its casing is a monstrosity.

They roam the halls in relative silence. The only time Miles speaks to Waylon is to alert him of upcoming variants or to give directions. He remembers this area distinctly, having traversed in haste as another screamed for his blood and sang with a bone saw, becoming lost so many times that he could draw the floor on a blueprint. And it is because of those memories that Waylon picks up his speed, forcing Miles to raise a curious eyebrow and increase his pace until they have ditched the plastic-covered walls for wooden boards and Waylon felt safe enough to slow down.

The two enter a room that is riddled with busted computers, and as Waylon takes the corner he miscalculates his step and catches his hip on the doorway, sparking a bout of electricity up the length of his side. He chokes out a gasp and doubles over as Miles rushes to his side and places an icy hand above his waist. It stays there, carefully, until Waylon flashes Miles a small, troubled smile and takes a shaky step forward. He tries to forget curious expression on Miles' face.

After that incident, time seems to elude Waylon as he and Miles tread the hallways of Hell. One foot in front of the other, Waylon is careful to avoid putting too much weight on one leg or else it'll flare a part of his hip and make his entire pelvis ache; he's sure that he's not bleeding anymore, although, when his thighs occasionally rub together he can feel thin pieces of dried blood breaking. To have been brought so low makes his stomach churn and dread consume him, wrapping its crushing hands around his every thought. Depression swarms like a storm when he thinks about how he was defiled and _taken_ with no reprieve or voice or power. It makes him sick. It causes his steps to falter and his body to go numb despite the way Miles keeps staring at him as if he won't notice.

Eddie did this to him; _he_ did this, and he has been the cause of every single thing that has happened since Frank chased Waylon into oblivion — Eddie and his lurid gaze and smile, with half of his face chewed by toxins and the other half twisted in demented sincerity. Why can't Waylon just leave him? What's holding him here? He has since lost the fear of death and at times has welcomed its cold embrace because this, this running and hiding and lying, is more torment than he can bear. He _shouldn't_ be able to bear; so why is it that just the thought of warning Miles makes his head spin and his gut twist? Waylon has no idea, which is why he remains silent and avoids Miles' questioning looks.

The block they have entered into is filled with movement and chatter as a multitude of variants crowd into groups or toy with themselves. Sunlight shines from three open windows and cascades over most of the room, but in the areas where darkness prevail the variants seem to meld into the walls and act as silhouettes. The sight is unnerving; he had noticed the asylum's degradation as days passed, but to see its effect on the variants solidifies the idea that he, too, must be no more than a broken shell. Waylon raises his hand and frowns at the grey tint of his skin and the dry cracks around his knuckles. When was the last time he's seen his face? He scans the room for a mirror and spies a piece of glass on the floor; it's a decent size and round enough so he could hold it without worry of being cut, but he loses bravado soon after noticing it.

It is when they come across two variants huddled together that Miles abruptly stops and Waylon has to dig his feet into the floor to avoid crashing into him.

Waylon sees the two variants and decides to keep his distance. "Why are we stopping?" He asks.

"They're talking."

Waylon makes a gesture to the rest of the room. "They're _all_ talking. What's so special about…uh," his words die in his throat as he takes notice of what exactly the two variants are doing. They're sitting a few feet ahead of Miles and Waylon, bodies crammed into the tight space under a desk with one sitting in the other's lap to accommodate for the lack of space. The one holding the other variant is petting his head and talking into his ear, speaking of old times and peace as the other's shoulders shake and his head bows in submission. Voices too loud, the conversation travels far into the room but Waylon has a feeling that it is not meant for the ears of bystanders. And apparently the other variants have recognized this, too, for no one else is paying the two any attention — their solitude seems too deliberate for any other explanation.

Ditching his hiding place, Waylon moves from behind Miles' back to stand by his side. Quietly, he says, "What are you thinking?"

"It's strange." Not only is the answer clipped but it comes too quickly, urging Waylon to pry the full answer from Miles' lips. The being speaks before Waylon can open his mouth. "Someone else should be watching them, not just us. They're loud; that one is crying and the other is comforting him. I'd expect some other person to be laughing or watching them, but everyone's ignoring them." Miles crosses his arms. "They're even giving these two space. Why? When did they start doing this?"

Waylon lifts a finger to interject but stops himself, instead turning around to face the rest of the room and running his gaze over as many of the variants as he can see. Miles has a point. Where there is one variant idly sitting there is another staring at him, either in suspicion or boredom or some other emotion. And where there weren't any individual variants there was a group of three or four. They had all glared at Miles and Waylon when they crossed paths and then turned away once the two outsiders were out of reach, but no one came close to the variants huddled under the table. Distance was kept, and any sort of contact was lost. The air here felt heavy with understanding that neither Waylon nor Miles could grasp, so fault rested on their shoulders.

Shifting his weight to the other foot, Waylon forces himself to shrug and walk forward, determined to leave the mystery unsolved. "I don't know, but I don't think we should try to figure it out." He pinches his elbow. "You're supposed to be showing me something, anyway."

Miles hesitates to follow Waylon for what felt like an eternity (although it could not have been more than thirty seconds). They leave the room as quickly as possible, but the feeling of eyes upon his back stays with Waylon far longer than he would have liked.

* * *

He's been here before.

Déjà vu slams into Waylon like a freight train once he steps into the security room. Lined along the wall is a row of radios and intercoms, and each has a small monitor in front of it. The images on the screens are either blurred by static or a colorful display of liquid crystals, and at the end of the table an open notepad, blinking pager, and pen lay dangling off the edge. Beside him a wired telephone hangs off of its hook and he can hear a steady dial tone coming from its speaker.

The room is different, but that doesn't stop Waylon from seeing himself run to a working radio and listen to a voice announce, _"Leadville police."_ Police. The room is different but it doesn't stop Waylon from tasting freedom on his tongue and feeling hope surge in his chest. He had been so close, _so close,_ and then, like everything else, it all came crashing down. Down into the drain. Down into an uncertainty that is far too abysmal.

Waylon blinks slowly. He can feel his lower back ache in pain from how rigid he is, but he lacks the control to fix his posture. It's as if he is beyond his body, floating somewhere behind it so that he can see watch his body stand lifelessly and stare into a monitor's black and white static. If only his life was so simple — black and white — and not gray; if only Frank caught him-

"Waylon?"

As if he is submerged under water, Waylon hears his name being called but it is muffled. He tries to face the voice yet his body refuses to move. A dulled pierce of electricity in his hip is the only sign that he is still even alive despite feeling tremendously distant. The voice calls for him again, a little clearer now, but he still cannot turn his head.

Waylon listens to the voice tsk and then disappear into silence; after a few seconds, another voice sounds. It is rougher than the previous one, causing something within Waylon to shift.

"Goddamn it, Blair, this is Murkoff Delta Four. If you do not pick up right fucking now I'm coming in."

His fingers jerk at that name, and Waylon is suddenly pulled back into his body. The pain in his hip sharpens but he ignores it for now, closing the distance between him and Miles swiftly.

Miles smirks. "Welcome back to Earth," he teases. Frowning, Waylon eyes the radio's flashing number, _3,_ and taps its antenna.

"Do they all work?"

"Not sure. I doubt it, because they're all turned off and their screens are static, but this one had an answer machine built into it." Leaning closer to the radio, and therefore pressing against Waylon's side, Miles touches the play option. The number on the radio drops to _2_ when the recording begins to play.

"Alright you fucker, I'm sending in troops. Hope your ass is dead for causing so much trouble." A door slams and is followed by a faint trudge of feet hitting the ground. A cacophony of marching boots ring loud until the commanding man on the radio comes back. "Heard everything about that Hope kid, by the way. Do you think it worked? Well, shit, must have if Alpha was shredded." The call breaks for a moment, and Waylon is about to switch to the next recording when a cough interrupts the silence and gunfire fills the space. "What the _fuck_ did you do, Blair-"

The recording stutters to a stop. Waylon's hand hovers over the play button as he swallows and looks back at Miles, unsure of what exactly he's searching for, but whatever it is, it's not given, and Miles simply encourages him with a nod.

So they listen to the last two recordings in silence, Waylon's heart racing as guttural screams and gunshots echo in the small room. They listen to the man describe their battle and call for Blair, demand that he come and tame his beast. His beast, whom is standing at Waylon's side silently, eyes a pit of dark mist as thin, thorny webs crawl from under Miles' skin. Waylon can feel them wiggle from where his and Miles' arms are pressed and he wants to move away but is afraid that doing so would cause a web to lash out at him. So he stands there quietly, willing the recordings to end and for Miles to move so that he can breathe. Waylon prays for the gunshots to cease, and then when they do he holds his breath and waits.

Miles' meticulous retreat allows Waylon to exhale. He watches as the being, now levitating again, toys with every radio in the room without sparing Waylon a glance. Exhaustion is clear in the way his shoulders slump, so when Miles reaches the hanging telephone and places it back on the hook Waylon speaks up.

"How long ago was this?" he asks while picking up the radio and flipping through the messages. None include a time stamp.

"A couple hours ago," Miles says. His voice is back to that raspy form from when he and Waylon first met, but Waylon is relieved to note the decreased amount of webs twisting around Miles' arms. Miles narrows his eyes at a spot over Waylon's shoulder. "Happened before I found you."

Putting the radio down, Waylon says, "Oh… Is this what you wanted to show me, then?"

"No."

"No?"

The other man shakes his head before approaching one of the better monitors. Its screen is still overwhelmed by rainbow radiance, but there is enough clarity for a gray image to show beneath it. Waylon steps closer in order to decipher the blur of gray, and sees an empty car parked neatly behind a wall of Humvees. The red jeep stands out among the military vehicles, and Waylon can't help but ask, "Whose car is that?"

"Mine," Miles answers and Waylon almost laughs.

"You wanted to show me your _jeep?_ " He holds his fist up to his mouth to keep from laughing. This is ridiculous. This is _crazy._ "You brought me all the way here just to show me your jeep, Miles? Really?"

Ignoring Waylon's incredulity, Miles presses his finger against the screen. "It has a full tank and the keys are still inside. Looks like no one has touched it."

"And what am I supposed to do about it?" Waylon asks. But his emotions are running faster than his brain, and when they finally catch up he shuts his mouth and stares wildly at Miles, fingers twitching at his side. He bites his tongue by accident but the pain is nothing compared to the shock coursing through his system. Shakily, Waylon forces himself to speak. "Are you…? Are you serious?"

"I could help you, fight off anyone who stands in your way. Once you're out there Waylon, you're _free_. No more Gluskin or Trager or any one of those insane patients." An aura of mist begins to thicken around Miles, but from the way the man focuses only on Waylon he must not have has noticed it yet. Even if he did, though, Waylon is sure the other's gaze would still be locked on him.

"But when? And where? All of the exits are locked or barred in some way. How would we even get out there?"

Miles must have thought of this, because there is no time for consideration. "The main lobby. Those doors should still be open from earlier, and I can help you get there. Once you're outside my car is right fucking there, it's grab and go."

Waylon swallows thickly as the clutches of dread find its way back to him. He stares as Miles pleads with his body, reigning in the webs even more to appear more human. Although the black aura continues to solidify, Waylon cannot see the demon anymore. He sees darkness that is masked by determination. He is too weak to combat Miles' energy, and the realization only serves to make a comfortable bed for despair to sleep in. He wants to speak but his throat is excruciatingly dry; agony shoots up his spine.

Waylon tries to wet his lips but fails. His voice is nothing more than a croak as he asks, "And what, what about you?"

An expression of pain takes Miles' face and Waylon has to close his eyes to shield himself from it. Even before Miles' explains his answer Waylon already knows: Miles is a product of this place, just as Billy is.

How to express how desperately he wants to say no? He'll be saying no to his one chance of escape in Miles' eyes, and that idea is ludicrous. Who would want to stay in this hell? But that's not the case, and Waylon knows it. He knows and knows and feels despair's teeth sink into his back and he clenches his eyes and opens his mouth to shout _"Ambush!"_ He hears nothing because he screamed for silence. A violent shiver rakes through his body and spikes the pain in his hips.

He can feel tears building in his eyes and wants to scream for how horrible Miles' offer is. No, he doesn't want to go to the lobby — stay away, please, stop trying to save him because to do so is to bring death and just the thought causes Waylon's soul to cry. He feels _tormented-_

Dead, as Miles suddenly jerks forward and grabs Waylon by the wrist. The aura of mist extends out to wrap Waylon in a cold embrace that chills him inside and out. Dread is replaced by confusion, and Miles' must be able to feel his shock for he answers in a hush of breath, "Trager and Eddie are near. I have to get you back to the storage room."

Waylon chokes. "Now?"

Miles nods and pushes past the half-open door, his body beginning to shift and take Waylon with it. "Right the fuck now," he says, and before Waylon can refute his vision is being stolen by darkness.


	18. One In The Same

Somewhere along the way it has become common occurrence for the world to fade to black and for dreams to be snatched away by shadows.

Light does not permeate here; however, beams of consciousness shine in dull breaks irregularly, just strong enough for Waylon to grasp on to and ride until the abyss engulfing him takes over and demands comatose again.

He is not dreaming; this state is new. The darkness is not stagnate, but is shifting and active. He is aware of its movement without being able to see it; speed's relativity means nothing when there are no objects to compare it to. Trying to remember the events that led to his suspension from reality makes Waylon's temples ache and thoughts hum, so he stops trying after the first couple attempts. Now, he just sits in whatever mess of shadowy webs he's in and stares at the wall of darkness in front of him.

Webs. Darkness. Everything about this place is excruciatingly familiar, yet the knowledge evades him. He bites his lower lip gently at first and then harder until a sharp pain radiates under his teeth. Sucking in air, Waylon prods the small cut on his lip with his finger.

"Shit," he mumbles and hears about five echoes sound after. He looks around but sees nothing. He waves finds air, touches what should be ground and finds air, twists his body to face behind him and finds air; air is all around him but the webs and walls are still present. How? He feels cold - so very cold and immensely lonely. The wave of consciousness that woke him begins to slowly bleed back into nothingness. Waylon stretches his hand to touch its essence yet his fingers simply tread air.

His thoughts slow. The humming in his ears fades. In the far distance he can see a shadow, standing at the center of combining spirals of webs, but the image dissolves into nothing right as the silhouette clarifies.

* * *

This whore is loud.

Her screams fill the clinic in a cacophony which carries an uncanny semblance to that of a banshee's screech. She howls and claws at the bed's bare mattress, tearing its padding into long strips with frayed edges. There's blood pooling beneath her, squirting into the air, dripping off the side of the bed, coating the wall behind the bed's headboard, and the only thing that comes to mind is:  _where is all that blood coming from?_

He watches as the wrench scratches her face until ribbons of crimson trail from her eyebrows to a fold in her neck; it settles at the base of her collar. Curiosity is a sneaky son of a bitch and forces him to approach the bed recklessly, and he's a few feet away from her outstretched hand when the  _wry_ of the drill moves from distant to right in his face. Blood flies on to his nose and Eddie jumps back, shouting and swiping at his face. "Why?" his words twist in disgust at the wet smear on his fingers.

"Stay away from the operating table, you contaminate," Trager waves the drill dangerously, jerking its cord and the wave wiggles the tongs in the power socket. Their attention is drawn back to the woman when she whimpers, and, in an unexpected show of mercy, Trager grabs a fistful of sheets and shoves them into her mouth. She tries to spit it out but he holds the bundle with a firm hand. He doesn't remove his hand until the only sounds she makes are sniffles, and then he pulls away with an apathetic expression. He flicks his finger and the drill starts up. "Bite on that if it gets too painful," he says before thumbing her thigh and starting the process over again.

Trager's precision is amazing as he drills into the festering hole between her legs. She's pink and ripe here again, like a baby girl, and the disgusting appendage that was once there is laid flaccid and useless below her naval. Why Trager is waiting so long to snip it off he does not know, but the doctor is moving with enough confidence to convince Eddie that he knows what he's doing. And it sure looks like it, with how the variant has stayed conscious for almost the entire operation with a minimal, albeit consistent, blood flow. There's so much of it, yet somehow she's still alive.

The doctor bends his knee and leans close to her opening, shutting the drill off and placing it on a nearby stand. Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, he points at the surgical tray. "Needle and thread, please," he pauses and then adds, "scissors too. Should be somewhere in the clutter."

Eddie wordlessly obeys and circles around Trager to the tray. Clutter is an overstatement since there aren't that many tools in the tray, just enough to have some scalpels and tweezers overlapping, so he finds the tools easily. Trager takes them without looking away from her, and when he begins to sew her closed the new woman moans and cries in pain, her tears and spit now staining the cloth in her mouth. Eddie stares as she manages to snag the corner of her mouth and follows the dribble of blood onto the cloth. It hits a wet spot and spreads like food coloring.

His attention is drawn back to the doctor when he notices Trager fumbling with the mutilated penis, pulling and twisting and folding it until the head disappears under something covered by Trager's shoulder. He steps closer, trying to see what the man is doing, and is immediately stopped by a sharp glare.

"Go."

"I'm not interrupting your operation at all by-"

"You're interrupting it by  _bothering_ me," Trager glowers. "Now go wait over there and leave me alone. I'll call you over when it's done."

"How much longer will that be?"

"I don't know, maybe sooner if you'd stop watching me. Now go." He shucks Eddie away and turns back to the surgery with a snap, completely ignoring Eddie's presence.

Shoulders dropping in resignation, Eddie stands there for a couple more seconds before walking away slowly to his seat across the room. He crumbles into it as the variant screams and picks up the pen; blue ink smears over the paper's corner and creates a blob right beside his sketch. The drawing is of an androgynous figure with arms outstretched. Lines are slashed here and there, accompanied by waves and spirals to create the outline and design concepts of a wedding gown.

The dress is strapless and has a low cut that drops slightly below the figure's shoulders. It flows down like water down the figure's torso, cupping its breasts that are like the plains of Wyoming, until the cloth reaches the figure's waist. Here the dress hugs the figure's hips and puffs out gracefully. Eddie imagines a gust of wind blowing the dress and draws quick lines to represent movement. He lifts the paper and looks it over critically. The dress itself is beautiful, a piece he actually wants to get started on right away, but the figure's faceless void is…off-putting. He taps the end of the pen against the paper and then lays it flat on the table. Ten seconds of quick sketching later, the figure's face is hidden behind a thin veil.

Petite frame, expressionless — cold — eyes, innocent preposition. He knows this figure, has felt its tug and drag and pull and shove. The veil covers its face but the essence remains; Eddie drums his fingers over the sketch, listening to the muffled cries of the variant and in the mist of it he picks out Trager humming a low tune. He sounds content, and in this moment Eddie envies him. He envies his lackadaisical attitude and appearance, his drive when the doctor finds something to tear apart and hunt. Eddie envies his ability to disconnect himself from all things except Miles.

Eddie supposes that it's the same for him; they parallel each other in how they have a single desire that's keeping them grounded. Similar in their hunt and dedication, however, the difference arises in the fundamentals of their motives. Trager wants to kill, whereas he wants to love. Trager seeks out vengeance and hatred while he fights for trust and loyalty.

And the more Waylon pushes him away the worse the deep depravity in his soul becomes. There's a pit in his being that acts as a black hole without consent, and the only time it's ever filled is when Waylon is by his side. When Waylon willing comes to him and the force of hand is unnecessary. He doesn't want to hurt her, but she's so…so…

The whore's scream pierces his ears and jerks him out of his thoughts. Metal clinks a few feet away, followed by the sound of wheels squeaking and skin clapping. Dropping the pen, Eddie looks up to see Trager wheeling away the cart with the surgical tray and wiping off blood on a dry towel. The doctor grumbles when the blood stains his hands, but he's undisturbed and shrugs his shoulders before turning to Eddie with a devilish grin.

Eddie doesn't wait to rush over to the bed and Trager's call after him lands on deaf ears.

He check's the variant's pulse and she winces at the contact, then, carefully, shuffles down the bed to her spread legs. His breath catches in his throat at the sight. Where there used to be a vulgarity is nothing more than a bloodied mess up empty space and a wide, gaping wound. Above the wound is a spongy bulge that can only be one thing poking out of a grotesque, circular hole, and Eddie's eyes widen in amazement.

His stomach churns, and although a harsh wave of nausea surges through him and causes bile to threaten his throat, he leans a little closer for a better look. The wound is disgusting, but in time it will heal. Scar tissue will close what space it can but the skin won't reconnect, and the spongy tip above it will stop festering soon, and the woman will be able to feel pleasure, he assumes — no, knows. Because Trager is grinning like a madman behind him and walking towards them like a god.

Eddie straightens and makes room for the crazed doctor to stand by him. He can't take his eyes off the expanse of the slut. "She's…she's alive," he stutters out with barely enough breath.

Trager crosses his arms. "Impressive, right? What did I tell you, buddy."

"You told me to leave you alone."

"I told you to  _trust me."_

Eddie finally breaks away from the now unconscious variant after noting the regular, if not steady, rise and fall of her chest. He meets Trager's gaze and hopes the doctor didn't catch his hesitation. "I had to be sure."

"And are you?"

He focuses on a spot behind Trager's shoulder. "…Yes," he says, and flinches when Trager abruptly grabs his shoulder and squeezes. The man's grin is predatory, with sharp teeth and broken, mechanical glasses, and Eddie wonders when that look was first associated with comfort.

Trager tilts his head. "Good. I only ever asked for your trust, Gluskin. I would never intentionally harm your Waylon," he says and his eye glints mischievously, "without your permission."

"Your jest makes me wary," Eddie rolls his eyes and, surprisingly, finds himself leaning into the touch. The touch is familiar, warm, and consistent. There's no complication of secret motives, no hidden desires, no pain. And he now welcomes it with open arms. Like a parasite's host.

They spend the next few hours meticulously examining the woman, checking over every orifice and vital area, monitoring her pulse, breathing, and temperature. By chance they stumble upon a half filled water bottle and Trager is more than giddy to have the woman drink. She falls asleep soon after, which gives Trager the opportunity to wrap her hips and surgery without interruption. Eddie helps where he can; he follows Trager's instruction perfectly and soaks in all of the information like a sponge, storing it in the recesses of his mind in preparation for the promised day. Although they have absolutely no reason to, they end up cleaning up the blood from the work area, talking and making small, teasing quips the entire time. Trager mocks him for doting over Waylon, and Eddie chides him for chasing after Miles.

"You're relentless, Trager," Eddie says while wiping the surgical tools. "Like a moth to flame."

Trager glares at him from his place at the bed. "Says the one sending his precious 'darling' out as bait."

A slight of anger flares before Eddie can calm it, and he drops the tube in his hand for a long knife with rigid edges. The blade is dull enough for him to touch it, and he rests it in his palm. He speaks carefully, trying to force neutrality into his tone. "He tried to take Waylon away with him, and she  _almost_ went with him. My beloved is too…vulnerable; she would have caved to his command. Upshur needs to pay," he grits out, to which Trager chuckles.

"You give her too much credit."

"You don't know her."

"And you don't know Waylon as much as you think you do," Trager puts down whatever was in his hand and leans against the bed. "I'm not saying she's gonna run off with Miles — he won't be afforded the chance to even do that — but how sure are you that she will even bring him to the lobby tomorrow? How will she even find him?"

"She will because I told her to, and she needs me in the same way that I need her. She's just rebellious and slow to learn." He swipes the knife through a rag then flips it over. "Waylon is conflicted."

Trager snorts. "Clearly," he says and smiles when Eddie's frown deepens. "And what about finding Miles? You think he's so involved with her that he's going to seek her out or something, or that she knows where he is?"

"How did you know where to find him?"

The question makes Trager go silent, and Eddie takes guiltless reprieve in stomping him. Eddie begins wiping the rest of the knives until the blood on them acts more as a hue than anything else, and he is about to tell Trager to forget the topic when the doctor answers in a tired, perplexed voice. "I felt him," he says, and Eddie thinks back to earlier when Trager returned to his workshop.

Broken, distressed, hurt that he was left alone to face his demon without aid, saying that he could  _feel_ Miles. Eddie had stared at him in bewilderment and annoyance because he had been with Waylon, confirming their love, and Trager was blaming everything on him for it.

Can Waylon sense Miles' presence too? Is she drawn to Miles similar to how Trager is? He feels revolted just thinking about it, but to forgo such a notion would be idiotic. He can guarantee that Waylon will find Miles, but how she does is beyond him.

Eddie wipes down the last scalpel. It is no matter, especially when the end goal for both himself and Trager includes a dead spirit. So he shakes his head and places the rag beside the tray, now looking at Trager who is toying with his bone shears.

"It doesn't matter," he says and Trager's expression contorts strangely. So Eddie takes a deep breath. "It doesn't matter how Waylon finds Miles or convinces him to come to the lobby, because she knows who she belongs to and won't betray me. Not after earlier, at least, so I put my full faith in her," he clasps his hands behind his back and broadens his shoulders, and the overhead light catches the fire in his eyes. "You should too."

* * *

How does one kill a monster that seems to regenerate and has exceptional strength? Attacking it won't do anything, especially when it can just as easily rip throats out and shove itself inside bodies. Trager bears the scars of having battled it, and despite the fight being brisk and more like a confrontation the array of bruises and slices cross-cutting his body makes Eddie internally wary. This fact doesn't shake his resolve, though, so when Trager begins brainstorming on ways to destroy the creature Eddie is quick to join.

Miles Upshur must die, if not by human standards than by any means possible. And by doing so, Waylon will be his.

Completely.

He uses the knowledge as fuel, and with every tick of the clock the anticipation builds and furthers his bloodlust. He must look deranged right now but so does Trager; two minds will always work better than one so he doesn't complain when Trager decides to walk the halls of the asylum like scavengers, and Trager doesn't mind when Eddie takes the lead because he knows these corridors all too well.

It happens when Eddie leads Trager through two connecting rooms in order to enter the opposite hallway that had been barricaded at the start of the riots. The route is very familiar; he walks it often out of pleasure if not need, for it is a shortcut to his food supply and storage room. The darkness is so familiar here that he puts no effort into seeing the way and closes his eyes, tilting his chin towards the ceiling and humming softly to himself. Their steps create a steady rhythm in the silent hallway, and the creak of the floorboard serves to accentuate their music. Contentment begins to fill him, and he is actually beginning to feel calm when Trager suddenly stops and makes some animalistic noise.

The growl erupts from deep within his throat, startling Eddie into stepping aside and staring at his shaking form. The man bares his teeth in a snarl and, like the strike of lightning, pulls forth his shears and makes to sprint. Eddie catches him by the wrist by sheer luck and fights to still the man, yanking his arm back and grabbing Trager's shoulder with a firm grip.

Eddie can't catch Trager's eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

"He's here," Trager practically  _vibrates_ and shoves Eddie's chest. "Now."

"Miles?"

"We have to go  _now,_ " is the last thing Trager says before he shoulders Eddie's elbow to break the man's grasp. He doesn't wait for Eddie to follow before he starts sprinting down the hall with his sheers held tightly in his hand. And Eddie doesn't hesitate. He reflexively pulls out his knife and runs behind Trager, tailing him all the way to the end of the hall and then right.

His heart is pounding in his chest; excitement and anxiety taste like copper in his mouth. The thrill is what makes the rush worth it, and he knows that Trager can feel it too,  _has_ to feel it, must be dying from how much it consumes it. And Eddie has stopped paying attention to his surroundings. He focuses solely on keeping up with Trager's maniacal howls and run, so much that he misses out of the shadows and twists in the hall that he claimed as his own. He misses the air that smells of himself; the atmosphere that has been created by his very own hand.

He misses the room that Frank Manera died in.

And when they swing the door to his supply room open, and Trager walks in with crimson in his eyes and blood in his mouth, Eddie almost misses the pale angel lying on the floor in the midst of preternatural mist.

Trager's sheers come down with a swing, and the scream that follows is shattering.


	19. Up Against The Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I apologize for the extremely long pause, but I love you guys and the story so much that I can't leave it. Thank you for your continued support despite my slowness!  
> Much love, and enjoy~

"Trager  _stop!_ "

Waylon doesn't realize he's conscious again until his face slams into a row of canned goods. He inhales a choked gasp and clenches his eyes shut, gritting against the agony of rapid movement and sharp sensations. The once void of mollifying air has been replaced by aches  _everywhere,_ and it's all so much to take in in the matter of a second. Too much, actually, to the point where he feels like simply lying there for god knows how long until his body gets used to reality; however, the shouting and chaos behind him seems to have other plans.

Something, or rather someone, crashes to the ground right beside Waylon's foot.

"He was here! I could feel him, all of him,  _here._ You felt him too!"

"If you don't get away from Waylon I swear-"

"Just wait for me to-"

"Trager!"

"Why aren't you listening to me?!"

Suddenly, Trager grabs Waylon's ankle in a vice grip and yanks him back, digging his nails into flesh hard enough to bruise. Waylon kicks at the man but he's too weak, mind and body having not recovered from the shift from comatose. Regardless of the futility, he struggles against the iron grip tightening around his ankle, squeezing skin and bone, sending Waylon into a blind panic because of his own weakness. He tries to kick again and succeeds in landing a blow to Trager's shoulder, yet the doctor's hold does not yield.

Another hand comes to grab Waylon's hip which sends a spiral of pain up his side.

"If you won't help me, then fine!" Trager is screaming now, voice hoarse from how torn his vocals are, delving deeper and deeper into rage. He tugs at Waylon's hips firmly, and Waylon is sure that he is going to be pulled back into the other's hold until the jerk never comes; it is replaced by a heavy weight barreling down on his back.

Trager is crawling over him, dragging his body across the floor, and Waylon's chest is being pressed down. He can't breathe like this, and the hand on his hip begins to claw at his side at the bruises and welts there, drawing out wave after wave of pain. "I need to bring him back," Trager shouts like a madman. "If you won't help me then I'll do it myself!"

There is a moment of tension – a pause that incites dread and fear into the soul of its victim – and then the calm gives way to the storm. Waylon is only slightly aware of the weight abruptly being lifted off of him three seconds after Trager had squeezed his throat with the intention to snap it in half; he immediately draws in his knees and begins to swallow as much air as possible, never mind how his stomach revolts and threatens to spill.

When he does finally look to see what had dragged Trager away, he is faced with a sight to behold:

A whisper of a shadow, warping around the forms of hatred that breed violence, the mist curls around Eddie's arm and spreads from where the Groom's grip meets Trager's throat. It spawns from the floor in a heap of tangled webs, reaching out like undead hands to grab at Eddie's feet and lick the soles of Trager's. The doctor is suspended in air, held up by the supernatural strength in Eddie's arm and the sight is so  _unnatural_ , so grotesque to Waylon. He swallows against fear and tastes disgust on his tongue.

"Miles," he says, voice nothing more than a broken whisper yet he recognizes the slight hesitance in the expanse of mist. The coils over Eddie's arm darken as more mist crawls over him, and Trager lets out a hiss of air. He kicks his feet in search of support but there is none.

Everything inside of Waylon's body is protesting as he slowly drags himself off his knees; he grits his teeth as he pushes off his thighs, ignoring the ripples of pain striking his hips and ass, a reminder of what may possibly be an injury but he can't think about that right now. He can't think about it because what takes precedence over the pain is the blank expression on Eddie's face — how his eyebrows and mouth may be contorted in rage yet his eyes remain void of emotion. Void of anger, sadness, pain, anything that constitutes as human and Waylon has become all too familiar with its owner.

This isn't Eddie, for if the being choking Trager was Eddie then its eyes would be alight with passionate fury.

"Miles, you need to let go of Eddie," Waylon says carefully, taking one step closer to the scene. His fingers are trembling so he balls them into fists. "You've done enough. Hurt Trager all you want b-but you can't use Eddie to do it."

The mist boils up from the floor, snapping at Trager's ankles and lashing out from Eddie's arm. Steadily, it begins to swallow Eddie's person.

Waylon takes another step towards them, wary of where the webs begin to stem from the floor, and lifts a hand in front of him. "This isn't what I want. Eddie was trying to protect me and you know it." Another step and the webs tag his bare toes before receding. He watches them squirm out of the way before moving closer. "You're just using Eddie and you know it."

" _Bu-ddy,"_ he hears Trager groan despite the way Eddie's hand clenches around his throat. The doctor is staring at Eddie with one eye half open, his entire body all but slack. He struggles to raise a hand to grab Eddie's, and Waylon expects him to try and wrench the Groom's vicious grip away but is surprised when Trager doesn't even attempt it.

There is nothing hostile about the way he places his hand over Eddie's as gentle as a surrender, layering his fingers over the mist covered ones in a way that makes Waylon feel his warmth, his care and camaraderie all in one motion. Trager tilts his head to rest on his shoulder, and actually  _chuckles,_ although, it sounds more like weak wheezing. The corner of his lips split into a broken smile.

Between heavy inhales and minor wheezing, Trager forces out a whisper. "Heh... You'd do anything for...for your Darling...won't cha?"

One exhale.

A tired laugh.

And then, his head drops.

* * *

The Walrider is a machine built upon dreams and nightmares; a physical manifestation of fear and sorrow and hatred, strong emotions that have the ability to either tear down or build. Strength is held within humanity's mind and heart, and the Walrider is a concentrated, physical form of that power — a being brought into existence by abysmal thoughts; a concept, or monster, drawn into reality.

He's afraid right now (he has always been afraid) but what else can he do? How does he control the power he possesses when he was never given the choice to even accept it? When his humanity and morality was completely stripped from him, torched away by the flames of death, and all that was left of himself was tossed into a smoldering heap of rich sorrow and confusion? To be a backseat driver to this...this being would be a blessing, but blessings don't come to demons.

So he followed the lead of the being he had taken over (the being that had taken over him) and did as it willed, never giving true consent, only saying 'yes' to the carnal needs it ripped out of him. It seemed as though he would spend the rest of eternity in this gritty hell without hope of change, but that was before the elevator to the lab ascended to higher ground and he felt the presence of a stranger.

There was an anomaly in the asylum — someone just the same as he once was — and to preserve it had almost immediately took priority.

The lobby. They just needed to survive until then and they could leave, escape, disappear from this place of deprivation and ugliness and live in the world of ignorance and joy. Normal, human life. Even if he could no longer divulge in its innocent pleasures he could aid Waylon in going back to it. Back to his home, his family, and so much more. So many little things that they had all taken for granted; life looked so wondrous when all one saw was death.

It was all he wanted, all that was feasible enough to desire. Why didn't Waylon want the same?

Miles stares at Waylon through the veil of mist covering his sight. He watches him from all angles, not yet having shifted from the mess of black essence into the form of a man, and moves his vision from various points across Eddie's body and the floor.

Something must be off with what he's seeing. This simply cannot be real, not with what has transpired between them, not with what had threatened his life only  _moments ago_. But Waylon is right there, tearing at the mist and webs surrounding the Groom frantically, eyes blown in rage and fear and tears yet all the while determined to pull the older man out of Miles' hold.

Miles raises a few tendrils to prod Waylon away, but the younger man lets out a guttural growl and grabs them from the air, breaking them off from the rest of Miles' body. He shifts his eyes to see Trager's frail body fall from his grasp to the ground, crumbling in on itself like a rag doll.

"Eddie, please come back!"

Miles feels another fistful of himself being torn away and jerks from the pinch, inadvertently giving more leeway for Waylon pull at the edges where his webs and mist meet the Groom's skin.

Like a caged animal Waylon claws at the mist furiously, digging into as much as possible so he can expose at least some of Eddie's skin, crying out for him as he does so. "You can fight this-" He says, a hiccup interrupting his words. Waylon fumbles over his own tongue to regain control.

"Can't you hear my voice, Eddie? I know you can hear me. I just need you to-to answer me, I need," he slaps a waning tendril away and lets out a howl of agony. But Miles wasn't trying to hurt him, so why does he sound so pained?

Miles retreats some of the mist back into himself, just enough to show the pale skin of the man beneath him, and feels something strange bubble to life as he watches Waylon's expression contort in relief. The young engineer wipes at a stray tear before cupping Eddie's cheek, unbothered by the expanse of scar tissue there. He caresses the mist over Eddie's face slowly, rubbing a soft circle over the man's scars, and then scratches underneath its surface, carefully prying it piece by piece off of Eddie.

And Miles, despite his immense strength and supernatural ability, is helpless to do anything but watch. He watches as Waylon gives himself to saving Eddie the best way he knows how, self-preservation thrown out the window for  _Eddie_. The same man who chased him through the asylum and forced his love upon him; the same man who tortured men due to a misconception of women.

Eddie Gluskin, the one who lived downstairs, the one you avoided, the  _Groom._ Miles was going to lead Waylon to safety but Waylon had never intended on going – he couldn't have, not with the desperation and anxiety pouring out of him in this moment. Waylon wouldn't have been able to leave with Miles even if he had wanted to. Even if Miles had forced him to, the joy of life that Miles so desired to feel on his skin again would not have come. It would have died, along with any remaining thread of comfort Waylon felt in his heart.

The strange feeling welling within him surfaces once more and this time he allows it to consume him, to mask the humanity in his being and take over the mist and webs and darkness that have come to life around and through him. Miles feels the mist being dragged back into him; it slithers from Eddie's arm and legs back into the bundle of black on the floor and coils from the cooling body of the doctor.

Retracting, compacting, and then solidifying, Miles opens his eyes to find actual eye sockets and the lack of a mist barrier before his eyes. He examines every limb he wiggles, wary of phantom sensations, and then trails his gaze to the pair now kneeling on the floor.

Despite being exhausted, Waylon holds Eddie up by his shoulder and cries into the crease of his collar, his choked tears breaking in a combination of disbelief and solace. While Eddie may not be conscious yet, his hold on Waylon looks to be somehow aware and strong, as if his body knows to hold on to the other.

Miles shifts his gaze to the battered doctor behind him and simply blinks when he sees the man's chest rise.

"Miles…I don't think I can do this."

The way Waylon says his name is beyond grief and submission – it is a heavy burden that falls off the younger's tongue with a thud. Miles does not approach Waylon when he turns back to him; instead, he stands as still as a statue, a small part of his mind willing himself to disappear into the room's shadows. He reigns in his essence to appear more like a man.

Waylon shakes his head and focuses on the floor, hesitating to continue, but then he squeezes Eddie's shoulder and lifts his head. The gleam in his eyes is reminiscent of Eddie's own striking glance, as if the fire had transferred between the two.

"I have nothing to do with whatever is going on with you and Trager, but I know that I can't…do this." Waylon pulls himself closer to Eddie and gestures out with his arm, eyes widening in a frantic manner. "I can't stay in this place any longer. Not with those patients, or the darkness, or Trager, or you-"

"I wasn't trying to make you stay, Waylon!" It wasn't his intention to yell, or to take a step towards them, but that sensation inside of Miles is simmering again and he doesn't understand. "We were supposed to leave, Way. You and I, together, walking away from this fucking hell hole-"

"And what about Eddie?"

"He sent you away to find me so he could  _kill_ me."

"You were going to kill both him and Trager if they tried to stop us," Waylon exclaims and slaps his palm against the ground, the thud ringing like thunder. "You possessed them, Miles. Eddie wasn't even himself when you made him choke Trager! And is Trager even breathing anymore? Is he dead? Do you even know?"

"He's alive."

"Because I was there to pull you off of him," Waylon says.

Miles rakes a hand through the mist surrounding his head, sighing in annoyance and exasperation. "What does it matter to you, Waylon? Why do you care if they live or die when they're the ones who have been torturing you since you came here? Why can't you just  _leave it all behind_ like you say you want to?"

Flashbacks to his recordings filter through his mind; memories of dread and waning hope fill his heart. Miles remembers the wave of maniacal freedom he felt when he watched the Walrider crawl into Chris Walker's skin. The joy of seeing his nightmare end. The terror he felt toward this creature briefly alleviated before it came after him. The thrill of knowing that there was an end to this place somewhere in the not too far distance.

It had all been taken away from him, but Waylon had so much more to hope for.

And perhaps the man knew it; perhaps Waylon tastes the dream of freedom on his tongue right now and that is why he's refusing to let Eddie go. Because Waylon knows, just as well as Miles does, how feeble hope is, and that this may be the last inkling of it that any of them may ever see. And if Miles places himself in Waylon's shoes, if only for a moment, then he'd be able to understand, too.

Oh, how the broken scramble to mend each other.

Miles expels a ripple of webs from his hand to slither along the floor opposite the pair across from him. He wants to do something, anything, say what needs to said, but the words and actions elude him. Frustration radiates from him, and Waylon must have picked up on it too because he is gradually sinking further into Eddie and away from Miles, his once intense stare now completely docile and cautious.

The creaks and echoing groans that have become background noise within the asylum are quiet now, nothing but a mere whisper in the storage room they are wallowing in. While Miles can sense the presence of others, the prickling sensations are dull and negligible which only serves to add to the lonely atmosphere beginning to dawn upon him. It would be an easy escape to simply fade into a dark shadow and seep into the depths of the asylum that way, away from the disarray of the three men before him, but right as he begins to disappear he sees Eddie shift from Waylon's arm.

The Groom blinks rapidly as, Miles presumes, he comes to terms with being in full control of himself again. Eddie must be groggy from the way his gaze looks glazed over and he pats his scarred cheek, while Waylon remains quiet and still, acting only as a loose support. Some time passes like this before Eddie finally sees Waylon.

"Darling?" he inquires, awestruck. "What are you doing- Are you hurt?" Eddie goes to check Waylon's chest and sides but the man grabs Eddie's wrists to stop him. "Did he hurt you? Please, I need to know."

Waylon gives a sad smile before saying, "No, I'm fine. Nothing is in pain."

"Where is he?"

"On the floor somewhere over there," Waylon answers and flicks his finger in Trager's general direction. He doesn't care to look for the doctor, especially not with Eddie's almost-panicked movements. Eddie is scanning the room while still relying on Waylon for support, his eyes darting from corner to corner, only briefly pausing on the abnormally dark silhouette standing in front of them. He must still be a little dazed since he has yet to mention it, which Miles is grateful for.

After adjusting their positions so that Eddie isn't bearing all of his weight on his arm, Waylon chances another glance at Miles. Their eyes meet in mute understanding, contemplation crossing Waylon's features before a wall of wavering determination takes its place. He breathes, and Miles can feel his breath ruffle the air around them.

"I refuse to waste away and die here," Waylon begins, and although he puts up the pretense of speaking to no one in particular Miles knows that the words are meant for him. "This place, this hell, will not become my grave; or yours, or Eddie's."

"So what are you thinking, then?" Miles asks without thinking of the way his form shimmers in mist and webs. Because he can already see it: the sun, the sky, the light that shines from heaven.

Eddie frowns up at Miles and moves just a little away from him. "Darling, you do not mean with Upshur in tow," he reaches for Waylon's hand, "do you?"

And Waylon squeezes his tightly. "I promise this will all be over soon. We just need to get to the main lobby."


End file.
